Death in Sardinia

by Marco Vichi

  ‘Let’s hope not, Carlino. But if it does happen, it will only mean we have to get busy again.’

  ‘Coffee, Inspector?’

  ‘Thanks.’ While preparing the coffee, Carlino kept on raving against the things he didn’t like about Italy … Which was everything, except for the women and the wine. Bordelli found it amusing. It pleased him to see that not everyone had forgotten. Carlino might exaggerate at times, but there was always something sound behind his arguments.

  ‘It’s on me, Inspector,’ Carlino said, setting the little cup down on the counter.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘But there’s one thing I have to tell you: I’d be a happier man if you weren’t a policeman,’ said the former resistance fighter.

  ‘You always say the same things, Carlino.’

  ‘I must’ve picked up the habit watching TV.’ Bordelli gulped down his coffee and found himself mysteriously with a cigarette in his hand.

  ‘Going up to see Rosa?’ Carlino asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Give her this.’ Carlino handed him a pink rose in a pink pot, the whole thing wrapped in pink paper. Bordelli would never have imagined that a permanently pissed-off woodsman like Carlino could think of such a thing, and he made an admiring face.

  ‘It’s not from me, Inspector. A whore friend of Rosa’s left it with me,’ said Carlino to clarify.

  ‘Ah, I see …’

  ‘I gave her a bottle of grappa.’ Now it all made sense.

  ‘’Bye, Carlino, have a good Christmas.’

  ‘You too, Inspector, though the best Christmas we ever had was in ’45,’ the barman said, putting the empty cup into the sink.

  ‘Did you like the cake, monkey?’

  ‘Loved it.’

  ‘I made it with my own two hands.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Just look at this lazybones …’ Rosa said, going towards the cat. Gideon was sleeping with his head turned upside down and his hind legs dangling off the edge of the chair. Rosa picked him up and laid him against her neck like a baby, then held him in the air and swung him around the room without the animal moving a muscle, then set him back down in the same place she’d picked him up. The cat slept through the whole thing as if nobody had touched him.

  ‘It’s almost revolting,’ said Bordelli.

  ‘I was the same way when I was a child. You could throw me out of bed and I wouldn’t wake up,’ Rosa said with a giggle. Then she filled two glasses with vin santo. Bordelli lit his sixth cigarette … or maybe it was already his seventh. He had to remind himself that he’d decided to quit. He would pay more attention starting tomorrow.

  ‘Shall we have one of my cigarettes?’ Rosa asked, with a naughty, childish smile.

  ‘I’d probably better not, at this hour. I have to go back to the office.’

  ‘But we will smoke it next time …’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It’s no fun alone,’ she said, shrugging.

  Bordelli looked at her and tried to imagine her as a little girl. He pictured her at age ten with her lips smeared with lipstick and wearing her mother’s high heels.

  ‘What are you doing for Christmas, Rosa?’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘A dinner with old friends.’

  ‘Jerk. You could have come here with us.’

  ‘Who’s us?’

  ‘Five women, all fabulous cooks,’ said Rosa in an alluring tone.

  ‘I would only get in the way,’ said Bordelli, crushing his cigarette butt in the ashtray.

  ‘What a lame excuse …’ said Rosa.

  ‘Anyway, I would feel awkward in the company of five women.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was the same way even as a child.’ Rosa sniggered.

  ‘And what were you like as a child, Inspector?’

  ‘Always sad and snotty-nosed.’

  ‘You must have been so cute … I can picture you, you know. With scabs on your knees …’

  ‘Shall we have another little glass?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not used to it at this time of day. I already feel drunk.’

  ‘You’d rather make me drink alone?’

  ‘Poor dear …’

  Rosa filled his glass, then sat down on the carpet in front of the coffee table and started writing the last of her gift tags. She tried to think of something funny, perhaps mischievous, for each. She would stare into space and concentrate, then giggle and start writing. Gideon woke up, jumped down from the chair and walked slowly into the kitchen to eat. The inspector kept looking around for an idea for Rosa’s present, but felt more confused than ever. A corkscrew? A cup? A succulent plant?

  The cat returned full of energy from his snack. He played a little with a Christmas-tree bauble and almost made it fall. Then he changed his mind, leapt up on to the sideboard and approached a ceramic fruit bowl. Rosa looked up.

  ‘Gideon, leave the hazelnuts alone,’ she said in the tone of a mother scolding her son. The cat stuck a paw into the bowl and, after a few swipes, made a hazelnut fall out, then knocked it off the sideboard and headed off in pursuit of it. He started dashing round the room, swiping at the nut and sending it off in every direction.

  ‘That’s become a bad habit of his,’ Rosa said with resignation, still writing her gift tags. Every so often Gideon would stop, circle round the hazelnut with apparent indifference, then pounce anew on that strange little ball, batting it away and then running after it. Bordelli watched the scene in amusement, hypnotised by the sound of the hazelnut rolling across the floor, pursued by that sort of miniature white bear … He was falling asleep, glass in hand, eyelids drooping, head falling to the side. All at once he started snoring.

  ‘Did you know I’m taking tennis lessons?’ Rosa asked, slapping him lightly on the head. Bordelli gave a start. He opened his eyes and realised the glass in his hand was gone. The cat was no longer playing, having gone back to sleep in an armchair.

  ‘Eh?’ said the inspector, dazed. Rosa was sitting beside him, sticking her fingers in his ears.

  ‘Look at all this hair, monkey.’

  ‘Come on, that hurts.’

  ‘Did you hear what I said?’

  ‘I think I heard something about tennis. Where’s my glass?’

  ‘Here, monkey, you were about to spill it all over yourself,’ said Rosa, handing it to him.

  ‘Rosa, if I didn’t have you …’ he said. Rosa kept touching his ears and giggling.

  ‘Do you think I’m too old for tennis?’

  ‘Old? You’re still a child …’

  ‘Liar! At any rate, Artemio says I have a natural talent.’

  ‘Who’s Artemio?’

  ‘My teacher.’

  ‘Ah, well, if he says so …’

  ‘He’s also a good-looking lad.’

  ‘Then he must be a champion.’ Bordelli imagined Rosa running across a clay court in stilettos, arms jangling with bracelets, and started laughing.

  ‘Are you laughing at me?’ she asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t dare.’ Rosa ignored him and ran into her bedroom. She returned with a racket in one hand and a tennis ball in the other, jumping all over the place. Moving the coffee table with her knees, she planted herself in front of him with her legs apart.

  ‘I’ll give you a little demonstration,’ she said.

  ‘You’re going to hit a ball in here?’

  ‘No, silly, I’m going to show you the motions. It’s not easy, you know. But I learn fast. Artemio says I’m a natural.’

  ‘Didn’t you already say that?’ Rosa shrugged and reached back with the racket, got up on tiptoe and swept the air with her stroke. The upshot was an absurd motion, and she ended up clipping Bordelli’s foot with the end of the racket.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry!’ she said, hand over her mouth, laughing like a little girl. Bordelli, however, was not laughing. He sat bolt upright, then stood up. His face had turned very serious.

  ‘B
ut Rosa, you’re—’

  ‘Come on, monkey, I didn’t do it on purpose. Does it really hurt?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What’s wrong, dear?’

  ‘But you … you’re left-handed.’

  ‘Of course. Why?’ Bordelli’s eyes were bloodshot, and he stared at her.

  ‘But you write with your right hand, or am I mistaken?’ he said.

  ‘Ah, what a good policeman …’

  ‘So you’re left-handed but you write with your right hand?’

  ‘Of course, darling.’

  ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘Because the nuns forced me to. The left hand is the devil’s hand … didn’t you know?’

  ‘Oh, shit.’

  ‘What’s got into you?’

  ‘Nothing, I was just thinking of something.’ Bordelli sat back down, looking absent, downed his glass and lit a cigarette. Rosa was still holding her racket.

  ‘Did you see how well I hit?’ she asked, letting out a shrill giggle. She kept waiting for her monkey to laugh with her, but Bordelli seemed completely out of reach.

  ‘I have to go,’ he said, standing up again.

  ‘What’s the hurry?’

  ‘I’ll come back tomorrow with your present,’ Bordelli said, heading for the door. Rosa followed him, racket in hand.

  ‘You could have brought it today,’ she said.

  ‘It wasn’t possible.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well … you’ll understand when you see it,’ Bordelli lied, smiling.

  ‘Jesus, I’m so curious,’ said Rosa, squeezing the handle of the racket.

  ‘You’ll like it, just wait and see,’ the inspector said, feeling more and more mired in his unsolvable case.

  Outside, he got into the car and went straight to Odoardo’s house. The Vespa wasn’t there, and all the lights were off. He decided to wait inside the Beetle on the threshing floor, hoping the lad would come. He didn’t want to go looking for him at the architect’s office; that would only create an unpleasant situation.

  The sleet had stopped some time before. A few frozen puddles were visible here and there. To the west, just over the snow-spotted hills, the sky had cleared a little, and below the cover of black clouds, a luminous band of sunlight poured out across the countryside. It looked as if God and his court of angels might appear at any moment.

  Bordelli couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid as to fail to realise that a left-handed person might be able to write with his right hand. Even though, in fact, he’d never personally known of such a case. He’d known only left-handed people who wrote with their left hands and had never stopped to wonder about it … But he could at least have imagined it might be otherwise. A policeman is supposed to think of certain things. Maybe he was ageing badly.

  He waited until half past four, watching the fire-red sun setting behind the snow-whitened hills of San Casciano. But no Odoardo.

  Driving back down by way of Via di Quintole, he remembered his promise to Rosa about her Christmas present. He had to forget about Odoardo for a while and concentrate on this other serious problem. He simply could not come up with an idea. Clothes were out of the question. Rosa had very particular tastes of her own and was hard to please. What, then? A vase? Coffee pot? Pressure cooker? … Who knew? Maybe he could get her something related to tennis … a racket, some balls or an outfit. But then he thought this wasn’t such a good idea, either. He simply couldn’t see Rosa running after a tennis ball. And her interest would probably soon fade, as with everything else … the guitar, skiing, horseback riding, painting …

  What had he given her the year before? He couldn’t remember. Maybe the antique nutcracker he’d found in his flat … or was that in ’62? And what had he done for all the other Christmases? He recalled that it had always been difficult, but in the end he’d always come through. Whereas this time …

  Driving past Galluzzo he felt quite discouraged, and by the time he reached Porta Romana, he thought that chasing down killers was easier than buying a present for a woman.

  Heading back towards the station, he found himself in a traffic jam on the Viali. He’d never seen anything like it. At Porta al Prato he saw a police car stopped near the traffic signal with its lights flashing. When he began to draw near he saw old Sergeant Di Francescantonio, trying to restore some order to the traffic with the help of a very young officer whom he knew only by sight. When he was within a few yards of them, he rolled down his window.

  ‘What’s going on, Tonio?’

  ‘There was an accident in Piazza Beccaria, sir,’ Di Francescantonio shouted.

  ‘Serious?’

  ‘Apparently not, but there’s a bus blocking the junction.’

  ‘Damn … Listen, could I leave you my car? I can move faster on foot.’

  ‘Try to put it over there, Inspector, and then leave me the keys.’

  ‘Thanks, Tonio.’ With some effort and a lot of patience, Bordelli managed to pull up along the wall and park the Beetle there. Wending his way slowly through the cars, he went and handed the keys to Di Francescantonio, who was going mad in the middle of all the exhaust fumes.

  ‘You can leave them with Mugnai,’ he said, putting them in Tonio’s pocket.

  ‘Very well, Inspector … Come on, signora, move!’ Di Francescantoio shouted at a woman driver. Bordelli thanked him again and left him to the pandemonium. He headed off to the police station on foot. It was very cold outside, but walking fast he managed to warm up a little. He went through the centre of town, taking the smallest streets with the fewest shops. The main streets were a cacophony of car horns, and on the pavements one couldn’t take more than two consecutive steps without colliding with somebody. It was like trying to exit a stadium at the end of a match.

  He turned down Via San Gallo and a few minutes later arrived at the station at last. Mugnai was rubbing his hands together and stamping his feet. Bordelli greeted him with a slap on the guard-booth window and went upstairs to his office. As usual, it was very hot there. The radiators paid for by his fellow citizens were blazing, and the air was dry. He took off his trench coat and jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Then he went and sat down and started staring at the wall in front of him, an unlit cigarette between his lips. Following the cracks in the yellowed plaster, he tried to put his thoughts in some sort of order. He made a few observations, ventured a few hypotheses, turned it all over a few times and … the ideas were all useless, but they did help to calm him down a little.

  He felt again like smoking, and to avoid lighting the cigarette, he tried phoning Odoardo’s house. There was no reply. No hurry, he thought, we can wait till after Christmas. But deep inside he desperately wanted to know as quickly as possible if the youth was … well, that’s enough now. He was getting tired of all these ifs. Besides, he had something much more urgent to attend to. Lighting the cigarette he had between his lips, he got up to go hunting for Rosa’s present, but at that moment there was a knock at the door. It was Tapinassi.

  ‘A couple of telexes for you, sir.’

  ‘That was fast,’ Bordelli said, sitting back down. Tapinassi handed him the two sheets of paper and left the office in a hurry. The telex from Verona said:

  Our research has found no individual corresponding to the name of Agostino Pintus, born at Custoza di Sommacampagna (Verona province) on 16 July 1912, in any records available at the Sommacampagna Town Hall. It must be added that in 1945 the Official Registry of the Commune of Sommacampagna was destroyed in a fire along with the entire town hall building and did not return to full functioning capacity until February of 1946. Further research for possible traces of said Pintus, carried out at the Registry Archives of Verona and bordering municipalities, yielded no results. Still other research through the records of Verona police and local school archives likewise yielded nothing. End of message.

  The telex from Oristano:

  Agostino Pintus, born at Custoza di Sommacampagna (Verona province) on 16 July 191
2, was found to be residing in Oristano at Via Marconi 33 bis as of 17 November 1945, having come from the Commune of Sommacampagna, according to a sworn statement by the subject. No document bearing his name has ever been received by the Town Hall of Oristano from said commune, owing to the destruction of the Registry Office of said commune in 1945. Also according to the subject’s sworn statement, he is the son of Pietro Pintus, born at Armungia (Cagliari province) on 12 July 1882, and Maria Giuseppina Gajas, born at Armungia (Cagliari province) on 6 November 1887. Said subject is unmarried. Sole proprietor of the firm bearing his name, Pintus has practised the profession of property developer in Oristano since 1949. No charges pending, no prior convictions. End of message.

  The inspector rang Piras at once. Maria picked up.

  ‘Nino has gone out for a walk, Captain.’

  ‘Do you know by any chance when he’ll be back?’

  ‘It’s already dark. He may have dropped in on a friend.’

  ‘Please ask him to call me at once. It’s rather urgent,’ said Bordelli, snuffing out his cigarette.

  ‘I’ll tell him the moment he returns, Captain,’ said Maria.

  ‘Thank you, and please give Gavino my regards …’ Bordelli hung up, and while waiting for Piras’s call he tried ringing Odoardo’s house again, but there was still no answer. He went into the bathroom to wash his face. It really was too hot in that office. As he was drying his hands he heard the telephone ring. He raced back to pick up. It was Piras.

  ‘I’ve got some information on your man,’ said Bordelli.

  ‘Hang up and I’ll call back.’ He redialled Piras’s number and read him the telexes, trying to give the right intonations to their strange bureaucratic language.

  ‘And there you have it,’ he said when he was done.

  ‘So we know even less than before,’ said Piras, disappointed.

  ‘It’s strange, however, that there are no traces anywhere around Verona.’

  ‘Maybe Pintus’s declaration was false.’

  ‘You run fast, Piras.’

  ‘Don’t use that word, Inspector, I’ve just about had it with these crutches.’