by Marco Vichi
‘Pretty soon you’ll be using them for firewood,’ said Bordelli.
‘We have to keep searching, Inspector,’ Piras said impatiently.
‘I’ll ask Verona to do an immediate check at the Custoza parish church and to interview a few of the town’s inhabitants to see if any of them remember this Agostino Pintus. We can also ask Cagliari to do similar checks at Armungia. Maybe we’ll come up with something on Pintus’s parents.’
‘We can try. But what’s the use?’ said Piras, sceptical.
‘Well, we can find out in the meantime whether Pintus told the truth.’
‘Even if we find nothing on his parents, it doesn’t mean anything, Inspector. They were born in the nineteenth century, and Armungia is a village of three hundred souls … Nobody will say anything. Sardinians don’t talk.’
‘You never know. I’ll also have a telex sent to the Ministry of Education. If Engineer Pintus is registered with the Order, we’ll have our first lead … But at this point, we’ll have to wait till after Christmas for all this.’
‘And what if Pintus changed his name?’ asked Piras, following a hunch.
‘One thing at a time, Piras. Let’s wait for the replies to the telexes first. Then we’ll see.’
‘And what if we don’t come up with anything?’ Piras continued pessimistically.
‘If we don’t come up with anything, I’ll ask all the police commissaries of Italy to research your man. Registries, parishes, school archives, university secretariats, the works … You’ll see, sooner or later something will turn up.’
‘If he’s living under an assumed name it’ll all be in vain,’ said Piras, continuing down the same path.
‘You have to be patient …’
‘We’re going to have to be lucky, Inspector.’
‘You’ve already had your share of luck, Piras, don’t complain,’ said Bordelli, alluding to the firefight in which the Sardinian nearly ended up dead.
‘I just hope the bitch doesn’t abandon me right now,’ said Piras.
‘Keep me posted and don’t do anything without telling me first.’
‘I want to pay a call on Engineer Pintus. I’ll ring you afterwards.’
‘Not to discourage you, Piras, but there’s certainly no shortage of mysteries in your neck of the woods …’
‘You’re thinking of sawn-off shotguns and knives, Inspector. But if my hunch is correct, a murder disguised as a suicide is a little too sophisticated, and even a little too low, for the proud bandits in this neck of the woods.’
‘There’s always someone ready to to blaze new trails,’ said Bordelli, countering Piras’s arguments. Over the years he’d learned that during an investigation one can form certain preconceived ideas that will compromise the search, and it’s always best to be very careful. He himself needed to take heed of this, especially concerning the Badalamenti murder.
‘Whatever the case, I’ll get to the bottom of this, Inspector, even if it means I have to throw away my crutches like Enrico Toti.’28
‘Fine, but don’t ever forget to think before you act,’ said Bordelli.
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Piras. The moment they hung up, the inspector sent for Tapinassi. When he arrived, Bordelli gave him pen and paper and dictated three new telex messages to him, one for the Minister of Education, another for Verona police and the third for Cagliari police.
‘Write Extremely Urgent on all three,’ he said to Tapinassi. Then he rang Mugnai to find out whether the Beetle’s keys had arrived. Di Francescantonio had called via radio to say he was on his way.
Pietrino went into the kitchen, mixed himself a shandy and went and sat down in the armchair in front of the fire. His mother had just started making dinner and was talking to him. He replied in monosyllables. A column of steam rose up from a big pot sitting directly on the coals. It was the cavolo nero for the soup. Gavino was busy in the shed behind the house. He always had something to repair or modify. If he had two arms he would build another house, thought Pietrino. Without getting up, he took two small logs and put them on the fire. The television’s blank screen reflected the flames. His mother carried on complaining of the cold and the snails that kept eating the cabbages, but he wasn’t listening. He felt somewhat agitated, and not only about the Pintus business. He had another equally serious problem on his hands. When, late that morning, he’d returned Ettore’s car to its stall, he’d noticed a dent in the door on the passenger’s side. It must have happened when he left it at the Tower of Mariano; some arsehole must have hit it while manoeuvring … Shit. He could only imagine how pissed off Ettore would be. He knew him too well. He could already hear him yelling ‘I knew it! I sensed it! I should never have lent it to you! A cop on crutches shouldn’t even try to drive a cart!’ SHIT! He would make him pay dearly for this, and Piras could kiss the little Fiat goodbye. There wasn’t any point in arguing that it could have happened to Ettore himself. It was a stinking mess, but Piras would rather tell him before he discovered it himself. After leaving the car in the stable he’d knocked on the Cannas’ door and asked Ettore’s mother whether she would kindly tell her son, as soon as he got home, to come to his place at once on an urgent matter. Ettore worked down in the plain, far from town, and wouldn’t be back on the bus until evening.
Piras looked at his watch: almost seven o’clock. Ettore might arrive at any moment.
‘Shall I turn on the set?’ Maria asked, pointing at the television.
‘I can do it,’ said Pietrino. Without getting up, he pushed the ‘on’ button with the tip of his crutch. He was getting good at it. The National channel was showing cartoons. He started watching them somewhat distractedly, head full of worries. As Popeye was beating up Brutus, there was a knock at the door. Piras got up.
‘I’ll get it,’ he said, and he hopped to the entrance and opened the door. It was Ettore, just as he’d expected. He seemed calm. Piras assumed he hadn’t seen the car yet.
‘Dad said you were looking for me,’ said Ettore.
‘Yeah …’
‘What’s with the long face?’
‘Nothing … there’s something I have to tell you.’
‘What happened?’
‘The Five hundred …’
‘Don’t tell me you got a flat tyre,’ said Ettore.
‘No, but … this morning, when I got back, I noticed that—’
‘Shit, d’ya see that dent in the door?’ Ettore interrupted him.
‘Calm down, I just wanted to say—’
‘Damn that fucking pole and whoever put it there!’ said Ettore bobbing his head.
‘Ah … so it was you …’
‘It’s gonna cost me a good thirty thousand lire …’
‘It is a pretty nasty dent,’ said Piras, relieved. He even smiled.
‘You go ahead and laugh …’
‘Sorry.’
‘So what was it you wanted to tell me?’ asked Ettore. Piras stopped laughing.
‘I just wanted to tell you that the car’s tyres … are a little low,’ he said, all serious.
‘And you had me come all the way here for that?’
‘You shouldn’t take it so lightly, you know. When the tyres are low you can end up in a crash …’
‘Is that all?’ asked Ettore.
‘Yes, that’s all.’
‘I’m gonna go eat … A si bìere.’
‘A si bìere.’
Ettore waved goodbye and walked away shaking his head.
The air was dry, and the wind chilled the hands. And the Beetle’s heating system parched the throat. Around 8.30, Bordelli parked in Piazza Piattellina and got out. Sniffing the air, he had the impression the whole quarter was imbued with the smell of onions. All the shops were already closed, the neighbourhood nearly deserted. In the dim light of a lamp-post, a group of young boys were playing football in the middle of a crossroads, steam rising from their skin. The goalposts consisted of bricks ‘borrowed’ from some nearby worksite. When Bordelli walked
through their ‘playing field’, they stopped and glared at him. He quickened his pace, and as soon as he hopped on to the pavement, the kids resumed running and shouting.
‘What’s the score?’ Bordelli asked, digging in his pocket for the house keys. The goalkeeper cast him a rapid glance.
‘Three–one,’ he said. And at that moment a ball flew between the bricks, and a little boy with almond eyes started yelling.
‘That doesn’t count! It doesn’t count!’ The others crowded around him.
‘What do you mean it doesn’t count?’ they shouted.
‘It doesn’t count! The goalie was distracted! Bloody hell! He was talking to that man!’ And he pointed to the intruder without looking at him, eyes still on his opponents. A row seemed about to break out, and Bordelli decided to intervene.
‘He’s right, the goalie was distracted,’ he said, walking towards them. One of the bigger boys turned round. He looked to be about ten, with long, curly hair.
‘And what do you want? We can work it out ourselves,’ he said, playing tough. A little boy with rabbit-teeth pulled the kid aside.
‘He’s with the police,’ he said softly, but not enough. The others all turned towards Bordelli.
‘Is it true you’re a copper?’ one of them asked.
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Bordelli.
‘Are you one of those cops that arrests criminals?’
‘I certainly am.’ The children all changed expression, dropped the ball and came towards the inspector.
‘Did you catch any killers today?’ asked Rabbit-teeth.
‘Not today, but I have been looking for one these last few days,’ said Bordelli. The boy with the long hair stepped forward, hands in his pockets.
‘The one who bumped off the newcomer?’ he asked with the hoarse voice of a smoker.
‘Good guess.’
‘And will you catch him?’ another one asked.
‘Of course,’ said Bordelli.
‘And what if you don’t?’ It sounded like a challenge. Bordelli needed to free up his mind a little, and was beginning to like this game.
‘Shall we bet that I catch him by the end of the year?’ he said.
‘What do you wanna bet?’ asked one.
‘If you win, I’ll bring you a new ball, a real one, made of leather …’
‘Wow!’ two or three of them cried.
‘And if I win, you have to wash my car every Sunday for a year. Is it a deal?’ Bordelli held out his hand. After a moment of reflection, one boy after another shook on the bet. The biggest boys tried to impress Bordelli by shaking his oversized hand hard.
‘And what if you still haven’t caught him by Epiphany?’ asked Rabbit-teeth, like someone with a nose for business. Bordelli thought about this for a moment.
‘Well, then I’ll have to bring you all some coal.’29
‘Look, if you lose you have to pay, you know,’ said the tough one.
‘Cop’s word of honour,’ said Bordelli. About twenty yards ahead, a third-floor window opened, and a woman stuck her head out.
‘Nino! Come home this instant!’ The window closed again with a thud.
‘Ouf! … See you guys tomorrow.’ Nino broke away from the group and started walking home with his hands in his pockets. The game was over. Rabbit-teeth went and picked up the ball, then came back to Bordelli clutching it to his belly.
‘How many killers have you caught in all?’ he asked.
‘I’ve lost track.’
‘Could we see your gun?’
‘Another time, I have to go now.’
‘Aww, come on!’ From a first-floor television somewhere came the theme music of the evening news.
‘Pretty soon there’ll be Carosello,’ said one of the kids.30
‘And then there’ll be the clowns,’ said another. They all hastily said goodbye to the cop and ran home. The street was left deserted. The inspector went into his building and while climbing the stairs thought he was wrong not to have had children. But now it was too late and there was no point crying over it.
Entering his flat, he found Botta in a greasy apron stirring an earthenware pot. There wasn’t a single free hob on the cooker. The kitchen had been turned upside down, but it smelled divine. Bordelli especially loved the aroma of cooked onion.
‘Ciao, Ennio, I can see you’re getting serious here.’ Botta was too engrossed to reply. Bordelli went up to him.
‘Ciao, Ennio,’ he repeated.
‘Don’t distract me, Inspector, I’m at a difficult point.’
‘Then I’ll leave this very instant. I just wanted to tell you that I’ve heard from Dante and he said he’ll be coming.’
‘Fine,’ said Botta, without turning round.
‘Think you can manage to throw something together for tonight as well?’
‘I think we should probably go out, Inspector. But later; I can’t right now.’
He lowered the flame under a sizzling saucepan and added some red wine. There was a brief, violent burst of smoke. Ennio sniffed it with satisfaction, then broke a stick of butter in two with a spoon and put one half in a frying pan to melt. At the same time he raised the lid of a large pot, looked inside, and took a big ball of steam square in the face. Lowering the lid, he wiped his hands on his apron. He looked like a great international chef, and perhaps he was. But one would have to wait another day before knowing for certain. French cuisine was no joking matter.
Bordelli left him to his labours and went into the living room with a glass of wine. He turned on the television, sat down in an armchair, and watched the end of the evening news on the National station. And he left it on afterwards as well, for the Carosello adverts programme, hoping that the ‘Colgate with Gardol’ spot, starring Virna Lisi, would air … It was worth waiting for.
Linetti hair cream, Calindri sitting in the middle of traffic, Paulista coffee … There were still two more to go … Arigliano with Antonetto, the digestive liqueur, and then … the Papalla family waiting for a Philco appliance. No Colgate. Too bad.
He got up and switched to Channel 2, then sat back down. The evening news was just starting. He hadn’t yet decided whether or not he liked television, but he found himself watching more and more of it. He’d bought the set in ’58 and it had never broken down. A day didn’t go by without him watching at least one news broadcast, but he watched other things as well. He especially liked it when those two jokers Tognazzi and Vianello were on, not to mention Walter Chiari, Manfredi, Gaber, Pinelli … and, of course, the great Totò. After a day on the job it was a little like sitting next to a warm fire. But there was also something about that magical object that bothered him, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Sitting there smoking or drinking and silently watching the greenish screen fill with images … when he thought about it that way, it almost seemed ridiculous. But at this point he couldn’t even imagine his home without the big luminous box, and every time he turned it off he felt a twinge of sadness. And that was precisely what bothered him, that subtle sense of dependency.
When the news report was over, Giorgio Gaber’s programme began. During the theme tune Bordelli started think about Odoardo again. He was tempted to ring him, but decided against it. At any rate, he didn’t feel like going out there that evening. He was too tired and needed to relax a little. The screen filled with Gaber’s huge nose. By now the man was more famous than the Pope. The inspector was about to succumb and light a cigarette, but was saved by the ring of the telephone. It was Fabiani.
‘I wanted to thank you for the other morning, Inspector.’
‘Why, what did I do?’
‘You listened to an old man’s complaints … which is quite a lot in itself.’
‘Sooner or later I’ll have to ask you to listen to mine.’
‘Whenever you like, Inspector.’
‘What have you decided about tomorrow, Dr Fabiani?’
‘I’ve decided to accept your invitation, thank you.’
‘Do
you like French cooking?’
‘Do you know anyone who doesn’t?’
‘Then I’ll expect you around half past nine.’ They said goodbye, and Bordelli went straight into the kitchen to let Botta know. He found him dicing garlic with a mezzaluna.
‘We’re a full house for tomorrow, Ennio. Fabiani just called to say he’s coming.’
‘Didn’t you already tell me that half an hour ago?’ asked Botta.
‘No, that was Dante.’
‘Don’t distract me, Inspector.’
Botta stopped chopping and went over to the cooker to stir something delicately with a wooden spoon. He sniffed the air and said nothing. He had a very serious expression on his face, like Diotivede when he was bending over one of his corpses. The lid of one pot started dancing about, pushed up by the steam.
‘Ennio, I need to ask you one more thing. For tonight, what do you say we have something delivered from Alfio’s?’ Alfio’s rosticceria always closed late.
‘Whatever you say,’ said Botta.
‘What would you like?’
‘You decide. Everything in a rotisserie tastes like roast chicken anyway.’
‘Then roast chicken it is. That way we can’t go wrong.’
Bordelli phoned Alfio’s rosticceria and ordered half a roast chicken with potatoes. While waiting for the delivery boy, he went and sat back down in front of Giorgio Gaber. He felt very tired, and even though he was quite amused, he couldn’t stop yawning. Some sort of circus music was booming from the apartment above … and who knew where the snatch of the song that won Bobby Solo first prize at Sanremo was coming from … The kid wasn’t bad, actually … the other one, too … what was his name? And those young roughnecks Raffaele and his friend were listening to … the singer had a pretty good voice … and then maybe … what was I thinking … music … in my day … when you came right down to it …
After Alfio’s delivery boy had rung the buzzer at least five times, Botta at last went to open the door, wooden spoon in hand.
‘Inspector! Didn’t you hear the buzzer?’
No reply. Ennio paid for the chicken and went to look for Bordelli. He found him asleep, lying on the couch as Gaber sang on the telly. He went and turned the set off, and while he was at it, he took a look around to decide how he would arrange the room for the Christmas dinner. When he had found the solution, he turned off the light and closed the door gently. Returning to the kitchen, he continued cooking while eating his chicken and potatoes with his hands.
