Death in Sardinia

by Marco Vichi

  ‘Voilà!’ she said, holding it up in the air. It was all crooked, with clumps of tobacco sticking out of one end.

  ‘Now we only have to light it,’ said Bordelli.

  ‘I’ll let you have the honour.’

  ‘If you insist.’ Rosa handed him the cigarette and struck a match.

  ‘You have to inhale the smoke and hold it in for a few seconds. It works better that way,’ she said in the tone of an expert. Bordelli obeyed and, after taking three or four puffs, passed the joint to Rosa. It had a nice smell, and the taste it left in one’s mouth wasn’t bad, either. Rosa took a drag and coughed.

  ‘Do you like it?’ she asked, passing it back to him.

  ‘I certainly like the smell.’

  ‘It takes a few minutes before you feel the effect.’ Taking puff after puff, they finished the cigarette. Rosa got up to put a record on the gramophone at low volume. It was Famous Symphonies of Rossini, directed by Toscanini. Then she went and sat down comfortably on the sofa.

  ‘Where’s Gideon?’ Bordelli asked. He hadn’t seen him yet.

  ‘Out roaming the roofs,’ said Rosa.

  ‘There must be a female involved.’

  ‘Don’t you feel anything yet?’ she said, giggling.

  ‘I guess not,’ said Bordelli, listening to The Thieving Magpie with his eyes closed. But the moment he’d said it he realised that the music was entering his head differently … as if the melody were forming inside his brain and then coming out of his ears. He didn’t know how else to explain it. Without opening his eyes, he made a gesture to Rosa, to let her know that the stuff was starting to work.

  ‘The music …’ he said.

  ‘What about the music?’ asked Rosa.

  ‘I’m imagining it … it’s like a great big snake moving around.’

  ‘A snake?’ she asked.

  ‘It seems all … I don’t know how to say it … but it’s very interesting …’

  ‘And what’s this great big snake doing?’

  ‘It’s as if … it were coming out of my ears …’

  ‘What ears?’

  ‘It’s as if … as if I can see the music … and … see it turning into the snake,’ said Bordelli.

  ‘Your face looks strange,’ Rosa said in a serious tone. He opened his eyes and looked at her.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said, touching his cheeks.

  ‘It’s as if …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s like y …’ but she couldn’t finish her sentence and burst into laughter. When she caught her breath and tried to speak again, another even greater fit of laughter overcame her, and she flopped back on to the sofa. Bordelli kept touching his face, worried. And she kept laughing to the point of tears, not recovering her breath for a good minute. Sitting up, she pointed a finger at Bordelli and started laughing even harder than before. Her face turned all red, and at one point she seemed to have gone so long without breathing that it appeared as if she could die. She tried two or three more times to speak, but couldn’t even manage to get out the first consonant. At a certain point Bordelli caught the giggles too, and started laughing for no reason at all. Or perhaps there was a reason, but he didn’t know yet what it was. He was laughing, full stop. And more and more. It was hard to speak.

  ‘You say … my face … is it … the snake? …’ he managed to say between hiccups. Rosa was rolling around on the couch, shaking her hands as if to tell him to stop. She was squeezing her legs together and seemed in danger of peeing her pants. They both carried on laughing and laughing like idiots, weeping from the strain.

  ‘M … my … face …’ Bordelli said with great effort, but didn’t have the breath to continue. Rosa rolled off the couch, holding her stomach, then managed to bolt to her feet and, running on tiptoe, raced to the bathroom. Bordelli flopped back in his chair, letting the William Tell Overture enter one ear at a gallop and exit the other just as fast. He couldn’t recall ever having laughed that way before. Rosa kept on laughing in the bathroom, then took a deep breath, and all fell silent. She returned a few moments later, reeling. She looked serious. She sat down like a good girl, then raised her eyes, looked at Bordelli, and opened her mouth …

  ‘Your face … looks like it’s falling down,’ she managed to say, then burst out laughing so hard that Bordelli almost thought he should somehow help her. But he wouldn’t have had the strength, because he too then started laughing again like a simpleton. Little by little they regained their senses. Rosa got up and, light as a butterfly, went and put a more ‘modern’ disc on the gramophone.

  ‘You were right, Rosa. Now I feel hungry,’ said Bordelli.

  ‘Me too …’ They ate a bit of everything, drinking wine and listening to Modugno. As soon as the song

  ‘Vitti‘na crozza’19 ended, Gideon started scratching at the pane of the French door. Rosa went to let him in, and he replied with a miaow. He allowed her only one caress, then, tail wagging, ran to the far end of the room and hopped up on to the sideboard. Lying down at once, he licked a paw three or four times, yawned, and then closed his eyes, with the two of them looking on.

  ‘All he ever does is sleep,’ said Rosa. Bordelli looked at his watch and stretched his back.

  ‘I think I’ll go to bed too,’ he said.

  ‘It’s barely half past two,’ she complained.

  ‘I need to sleep, Rosa.’

  ‘Oh, poo …‘a donna riccia non la voglio n-no …’ she started singing along with Modugno.20

  ‘I don’t suppose you could give me a bit of that stuff ?’ asked Bordelli, gesturing towards the little box with the marijuana inside.

  ‘I’d like to continue my investigation of its effects.’

  ‘Only if you don’t leave …’

  ‘I’m sorry, Rosa, but I’m a wreck. And tomorrow I have a very busy day.’

  ‘You’re mean,’ she said. Then she tore a page out of the magazine, put a little grass and a few rolling papers in it, wrapped it all up in a little package, and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

  ‘You’re a dear,’ said Bordelli. He drank his last drop of wine and stood up. Rosa followed him to the door, still huffing in frustration. When she didn’t feel like sleeping, it bored her to be alone. On the wall in the entranceway hung a sort of small bowl with the face of Pope John XXIII on it. Rosa ran her finger over it.

  ‘Look how dirty. I really need to dust the place,’ she said, frowning.

  ‘Goodnight, Rosa.’

  ‘Will I see you again before Christmas, monkey?’

  ‘I’ll come on Christmas Eve with your present.’

  ‘Oh, goody! You’ve already bought it?’ she asked, her expression changing.

  ‘Of course,’ Bordelli lied.

  ‘What is it? No, wait, don’t tell me!’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Bordelli. He opened the door and lowered his voice.

  ‘Let’s be quiet,’ he said, gesturing towards the door of Signora Anichini, an old maid born not long after the unification of Italy who still liked to spy and eavesdrop on other people. Rosa stood up on tiptoe and kissed the inspector on the chin.

  ‘Goodnight, Rosa, thanks for everything.’

  ‘You’re leaving me all alone, you wicked man.’ He kissed her hand, as in the old days. He knew she liked it. A last wave goodbye and he vanished down the stairs, quiet as a burglar, followed by Rosa’s incomprehensible whisperings. As he was descending the last flight, a rapid-fire burst of kisses came down through the stairwell. When he was already at the main door, he heard Rosa’s voice.

  ‘Tell me what the present is, since I’ll forget anyway.’

  ‘Sshhh …’ said Bordelli, closing the door behind him.

  The weather had taken a turn for the worse. It was raining. The car seat was cold, but Bordelli barely noticed. He drove distractedly, grinding the gears. When he got home, he went straight to the kitchen. He was still hungry. He wolfed down a slice of the pecorino he’d bought at the market in Impruneta an
d finished what little was left of the finocchiona salami. All without bread, since there wasn’t any. He even scarfed down half a banana and a week-old piece of mozzarella. Then he rolled himself another cigarette of that stuff and smoked it pacing slowly about the flat. He really liked the smell of it. He went and poked his head back into the room he never left open. Nobody had ever slept in it. Which was sad, when you came right down to it. He decided that he would fix it up a little by the end of the month. He might even sleep there himself from time to time, just for a change. Closing the door again, he went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He couldn’t quite grasp how he actually felt. His face in the mirror looked back at him with an amused expression, and he felt as if he was being watched. He’d never felt that way before. But, still, he also felt calm and relaxed.

  He went into the bedroom and got undressed. He folded his clothes, which he had never done before, and arranged them tidily on a chair. Then he got into bed, switched off the light, and turned on to his side. He felt as if he were floating in the middle of the room and let his mind drift away. He fell asleep thinking of the hashish drinkers who woke up in a pleasure garden.

  23 December

  He was still asleep when the phone rang at his bedside … but he did not wake up in a pleasure garden. He picked up the receiver without turning on the light.

  ‘Yes …?’

  ‘Inspector … am I disturbing you?’

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Don’t you recognise me? It’s me.’

  ‘Ennio … but what time is it?’

  ‘Seven o’clock, Inspector. I just got out of the hotel.’

  ‘That’s excellent news.’

  ‘You told me yourself to call as soon as I got out … for that little job.’

  ‘Thanks, but I don’t need you any more for that. The guy I wanted to nab was killed.’ Botta huffed into the receiver.

  ‘Too bad, I was really keen on doing you a favour,’ he said, disappointed.

  ‘Next time, Botta.’

  ‘Who was the guy that got killed?’

  ‘A loan shark.’

  ‘Fantastic. Don’t tell me you’re desperately looking for the killer, Inspector.’

  ‘It’s my job, Botta. But it’s true I’m not really so desperate, when you come down to it.’

  ‘Will you dump the body in the Arno or feed it to the pigs?’ Botta asked in all seriousness.

  ‘Let’s talk about something else, Ennio. Are you hard up?’

  ‘What do you think, Inspector? Have you ever seen Botta rolling in dough?’

  ‘Well, if you hadn’t pissed away all that money from Greece at the races …’

  ‘I’ve sworn off the horses for ever …’ said Ennio, sighing into the receiver.

  ‘If you feel like dropping by, we can have coffee together,’ said Bordelli, already thinking of the Christmas dinner.

  ‘Sure, I’d be glad to come by. Need anything?’

  ‘I’d like to ask you to get me a carton of cigarettes, but I’m trying to quit.’

  ‘A nice little watch?’

  ‘Just come and we’ll see.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  Botta hung up, and the inspector got out of bed. From the chair he picked up the trousers he had carefully folded just a few hours before and slid his legs into them. He went into the bathroom barefooted, braces dangling. Leaning over the sink, he looked at himself in the mirror. He grabbed the flesh on one arm. It didn’t seem so old, really; the skin was still rather smooth. At fifty-five and counting, it could be a lot worse. It seemed like the start of a rather positive day. He barely had time to splash some water on his face when the doorbell rang. Drying himself in haste, he went and opened the door, waiting on the threshold. Botta arrived out of breath and dripping with rain. He gave the inspector a sad smile. He’d lost a lot of weight, cheeks looking hollower than usual.

  ‘Hello, Inspector. As you can see, they let me out for Christmas.’

  ‘You didn’t take very long to get here. Were you close by?’

  ‘No, I was in Bologna, but I told the chauffeur I was in a hurry.’

  ‘You look well,’ Bordelli lied, shaking his hand.

  ‘Cut the shit, Inspector, I’ve lost fifteen pounds. They don’t know how to cook in that fucking prison.’

  ‘I’ll send a memo to the ministry and demand that they hire a French chef for the Murate.’

  ‘Shall I make the coffee, Inspector?’

  ‘Good idea.’ Botta then took two false Bulova watches out of his pocket.

  ‘First get a load of this stuff. Only six thousand lire. There’s even the little window with the date.’

  ‘You’re barely out of prison and already loaded with rubbish?’

  ‘I could make a lot more money with cocaine, Inspector, but I don’t like that sector …’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  ‘You like this one?’ said Ennio, holding up another watch.

  ‘Put that shit away, Botta.’

  ‘Forget I ever mentioned it.’

  ‘Let me finish shaving and I’m all yours,’ said Bordelli, slapping him on the back.

  ‘I’ll go and make the coffee.’

  ‘Everything’s out on the counter, there’s nothing to break open.’

  ‘Too bad,’ Botta said, chuckling, and then disappeared into the kitchen.

  He prepared the moka in strict accordance with the rules, and while the inspector was shaving, he started milling about the flat. Nothing had changed. Along the wall in the entrance were the same stacks of newspapers and dusty boxes he’d always seen there. It looked like the home of someone who’d just moved in and hadn’t yet decided where to put things.

  ‘What are you doing for Christmas, Botta?’ Bordelli asked loudly from the bathroom. Ennio appeared in the doorway.

  ‘What was that, Inspector?’ They looked at each other through the mirror.

  ‘I was asking what you’re doing for Christmas.’

  ‘Didn’t you know? I’m going to my house in Monte Carlo,’ Botta said with a wry face. Having finished shaving, Bordelli splashed some aftershave on his face. It burned like fire, and he liked the feeling.

  ‘Feel like putting together a dinner here with me?’ he asked. He could still remember the dinner of two years before, in the middle of the summer, when Botta had outdone himself by making a multilingual meal.

  ‘Who else is coming?’ Ennio asked, frowning.

  ‘Diotivede, Fabiani, Dante … all people you already know.’

  ‘What about the Sardinian kid? Has he recovered?’

  ‘He’s still in Sardinia. He’s doing all right, says he’ll be back in January.’

  ‘If you hear from him, give him my best.’

  ‘Will do,’ said Bordelli, trying to tame some overgrown hairs in his eyebrows. Hair is weird, Rosa had said to him one evening … The older you get, the more you’ve got on strange parts of your body.

  ‘I’ve already got something in mind for your dinner,’ said Botta, looking thoughtful. Bordelli looked at him through the mirror.

  ‘I like people with a sense of initiative. The only thing …’

  ‘The only thing?’ Ennio asked, concerned.

  ‘Diotivede would like some French onion soup. Do you know how to make it?’

  ‘Are you kidding, Inspector? Right after the war I spent a year in a Marseille prison. I know all about French cuisine.’

  ‘Then you’ll make the pickiest corpse-cutter in Italy a happy man,’ said Bordelli. Realising he hadn’t shaved properly, he lathered his face up again. Ennio was already at the organisational stage.

  ‘It would probably be a good idea to start doing some shopping today.’

  ‘I’ll give you the cash straight away.’

  ‘Now if only I can manage to find what I need …’ The inspector was taking his time with his face, and in the end Botta went and sat down on the toilet lid.

  ‘How much do you need?’ Bordelli asked.

  �
�Ten thousand should be enough.’

  ‘When will you need the kitchen?’

  ‘I need to start today, Inspector, and I should probably hurry.’

  ‘All right, then, I’ll leave you the house keys so you can come and go as you please.’ Bordelli thought about what he’d just said and started laughing. Botta looked at him as if he felt slightly offended.

  ‘Why are you laughing, Inspector?’

  ‘Do you even know how to use keys any more, Botta? Do you remember how you do it? You stick them in and turn …’

  ‘Look, I’m not just a burglar, you know. In my day I even went to school …’ Bordelli at last finished shaving and put the fiery aftershave on his face again.

  ‘How’s the coffee coming along?’ he asked. Ennio leapt to his feet and ran into the kitchen. Bordelli heard him yelling and, drying his hands, went to see what he was doing.

  ‘Who you yelling at, Botta?’

  ‘You know what they say in France, Inspector. Café boilé café fouté. I’ll make a fresh pot.’

  ‘I haven’t got the time, Botta. I’ll get one outside.’

  ‘It’ll only take a minute.’ Botta immediately got busy. The inspector went to look for a shirt and was putting it on as he returned to the kitchen. The coffee pot was already on the fire.

  ‘You were saying you went to school …’ said Bordelli.

  ‘I even did a year of university.’

  ‘And how did you pay for your studies?’ Ennio had rinsed off two espresso cups and was looking for something to dry them with.

  ‘My father was still around. I don’t know how he did it, but we almost always had money for food and study. And when we didn’t …’

  ‘It was your job to find some.’

  ‘What else was I supposed to do? To learn a profession you have to study, Inspector, and to study you need a lot of money. Do you think it’s right for the poor to remain ignorant?’