by Marco Vichi
Good. Well done, Nino, case closed … He had a good imagination, but without any evidence his hypotheses weren’t worth a fig.
Driving along, he tried to draw some conclusions. He realised that, if this really was a case of murder, there wasn’t much hope of catching the killer, even if Pintus himself had done it. He started listing the reasons for his pessimism … Benigno’s house was in a secluded area along an infrequently travelled main road, about fifty yards from the road, a couple of miles from Tramatza, three miles from Màssama, and seven from Oristano. Next to the house was the old Zocchinu quarry, abandoned decades ago. The nearest house was almost two miles away, just outside of Tramatza. It was hard to imagine how there could be any witnesses, and even if there were only one such person, it was anybody’s guess whether he would talk.
He saw Benigno’s farmhouse from afar, low and broad, with its curved roof. It looked as if some giant had slammed his open hand down on it. When he was right in front of it, for no reason in particular, he turned on to the driveway and parked the 500 in the space in front of the house. Barraccu’s Motom was propped against the wall, as it had been the previous time. Piras went behind the house. The sheep weren’t there; apparently Barraccu had taken them out to pasture. The donkey was tied to his tree, and he could hear the pigs moving about in the pigsty. Taking a deep breath, he got a strong whiff of manure. It was something he missed in Florence, like the taste of certain of his mother’s dishes.
He started poking around near the house, looking on the ground. He wasn’t searching for anything in particular, only hoping for a little luck, something that might put him on the right track. But he found nothing. The forecourt was paved with old bricks, and the ground all around was hard and rocky. One would have needed a pickaxe to leave any tracks, and the same was true of the driveway leading to the Carlo Felice road.
He got back into the Fiat, thinking that perhaps it was true that he’d used up all his luck on the day of the shoot-out with those bandits. He couldn’t expect much more. For the moment he would have to make do with his imagination. He turned on to the main road and pressed the accelerator. The road was as straight as a board, with flat land all around.
An insect kept flying around the desktop lamp, the shadow of its wings fluttering along the walls … until it got too close to the bulb and fell down senseless, little legs in the air. Bordelli was sitting in his office, thinking of Odoardo, which he seemed to be doing more and more. From time to time, however, his thoughts turned briefly to Botta’s French dinner.
It wasn’t yet midday. After the downpour, a bothersome light rain was now falling as if it would never let up. There was a knock at the door and Officer Di Lello stuck his head inside. He was a strapping lad who’d arrived a few months earlier from the Pescara province in the Abruzzi. His dark eyes gleamed in his broad face like two roast coffee beans.
‘Could I bother you for a minute, Inspector?’
‘Come in.’ Di Lello entered, closing the door behind him.
‘We arrested a bloke last night … He was about to steal a Fiat Eight fifty.’
‘Is that all?’ Di Lello seemed embarrassed.
‘No, it’s just that … well, the bloke says … he wants to talk to you … says he knows you … Give him a little more time and he’ll say you’re great friends,’ Di Lello muttered with a compassionate smile.
‘What’s his name?’ Bordelli asked.
‘He hasn’t said, and he didn’t have any papers on him.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Just outside the door. He’s been kicking up a row … threatening not to eat and to—’
‘Bring him in,’ the inspector cut him off. Di Lello opened the door and stuck his head out.
‘You can come in,’ he said. When Bordelli saw the man enter in handcuffs, he slapped himself on the forehead.
‘Damìn! What sort of mischief have you been up to this time? And at Christmas, no less …’ Damìn shrugged his shoulders and said nothing. Di Lello was still in the doorway, slack jawed, and the inspector gestured at him.
‘Di Lello, please take his handcuffs off.’ The young cop immediately freed Damìn, then looked at Bordelli again, awaiting orders.
‘You can go, Di Lello, thanks. I’ll take care of this.’ The patrolman gave a last perplexed look at Damìn and then left. Bordelli leaned back in his chair.
‘Sit down, Damìn. How is it you’re always getting arrested?’
‘I almost pulled it off, Inspector, I already had the cables in my hands …’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘With an Eight fifty I can get by for a whole month,’ Damìn continued gloomily. He flopped into a chair, making it creak. Damìn was from Massa, broad as a wardrobe, and had old scars on his face. He claimed to have spent five years in the French Foreign Legion, and to look at him it wasn’t hard to believe. Bordelli started drumming his fingers on the desk, trying not to think of the cigarette he felt like smoking.
‘You’re a great big guy, Damìn … how old are you?’
‘Thirty-three, Inspector, same as Jesus Christ when they eliminated him.’
‘They didn’t “eliminate” him, they crucified him.’
‘What’s the difference? He stepped on a few bastards’ toes and they did away with him. That’s the gist of it, ain’t it?’
‘I guess so.’
‘And if he ever comes back, they won’t wait thirty-three years this time around. They’ll get rid of him a lot sooner.’
‘Don’t change the subject, Damìn.’
‘I’m not changing the subject, Inspector, I’m saying that the poor have got no future … and Jesus was a poor bloke just like me.’
‘But he didn’t go around stealing cars.’
‘That’s another matter, Inspector.’
‘Why on earth can’t you manage to find a regular job, Damìn?’ Damìn squirmed in his chair. He was as unlucky as he was good hearted, being the kind of person who might spend a whole day treating an injured sparrow.
‘And what would I do, Inspector? I’ve got all kinds of ideas, but nobody’s ever gonna hire a bloke like me …’
‘Well, if you spend your life in jail you can be sure you’ll never get anywhere,’ the inspector said. Damìn shook his head.
‘Just my bleedin’ luck … in the slammer for Christmas,’ he said.
‘What do you know how to do, Damìn? I mean, what kind of work?’
‘I can work as gardener … watching the plants grow … I like that sort of thing.’
‘You like it, or you know how to do it?’
‘My father was a gardener and a forester. He worked like a dog and earned less than a bleedin’ slave.’
‘If I managed to find you a job as a gardener, would you take it?’ Bordelli asked.
‘Who’s gonna hire me?’ Damìn said with a shrug.
‘Let me give it a try. After the holidays, I want you to go to Palazzo Vecchio, to the employment office, and ask for this person … I’ll have already phoned him and explained the situation.’ Bordelli wrote a name down on a piece of paper.
‘How am I gonna do that if I’m inside?’ asked Damìn, brow furrowed.
‘I’ll have the charges dropped,’ said Bordelli, passing him the piece of paper. Damìn read the name: Dario Fumagalli.
‘So I’m free to go?’ he asked. He wasn’t sure he’d heard right.
‘Only if you behave.’
‘Blimey!’
‘Did you damage that Eight fifty?’
‘No, Inspector.’
‘Look at me, Damìn. This is the last time I’m going to help you.’
‘After Epiphany I’ll go and talk to that guy, I swear to God,’ said Damìn, putting his fist over his heart.
‘I’m counting on it. Come on, let’s go. I’ll walk you out of the fortress. They’ll never let you leave alone.’
The inspector saw Damìn out of the station, shook his hand, and watched him stomp away in the rain. The luckl
ess lug walked as if trampling on the world in revenge for something.
Bordelli returned to his office and put an unlit cigarette between his lips. Then he picked up the phone to call Dario Fumagalli, the city hall clerk. He had to do it straight away, and he hoped to find him at home. Dario was the son of an old friend of his who’d died a few years earlier. Bordelli had known Dario since he was a baby. He was a smart kid who would understand the situation immediately.
Dario picked up the phone. Bordelli could hear his young son screaming in the background, though it was hard to tell whether he was crying or shouting for joy. He wished him and his family a happy holiday and then explained what he had in mind. He didn’t hide anything and said he would vouch for Damìn. Fumagalli said he would see to the matter personally and keep him informed.
‘Thanks, Dario.’
‘A happy Christmas again, Inspector.’
They hung up. Bordelli set the still-unlit cigarette down next to the telephone and, as every Christmas, decided that the least he could do was to tidy up his desk a little. He studied the situation. Papers stacked high, disorderly piles of scraps, little earthenware plates overflowing with clips, empty envelopes, pen-holders, three ashtrays, and tons of other objects put there who knew when and who knew why. He stared at the disorder for a few seconds. He didn’t know where to start. And then he thought that, in the end, that desk, in that state, was a familiar sight and, as every Christmas, he decided to skip it.
It was past one o’clock. Looking out the window, Bordelli noticed that it had almost stopped raining. He went out on foot and, walking under the long, overhanging eaves of Florence, went into Cesare’s trattoria. After exchanging greetings with the waiters, he slipped into Totò’s kitchen.
‘Hello, Inspector! How hungry are you today?’ the cook asked. Bordelli dried his hair with a handkerchief and collapsed on to his stool.
‘I’d rather eat lightly today, Totò. I’ve got a French dinner waiting for me this evening.’ Totò looked shorter and darker than usual.
‘Well, if you prefer, I can just give you a glass of water,’ he said, sneering.
‘Don’t go overboard. Haven’t you got some side dish of vegetables?’
‘I’ve got aubergines Parmesan. What do you say?’
‘And for starters?’
‘You decide, Inspector. Tagliolini in a truffle crème sauce, penne all’amatriciana, pappardelle with wild boar, tortelloni in a sauce of—’
‘Never mind, Totò. Just bring me a slice of bread and some olive oil.’ The cook threw up his hands and brought the inspector a serving dish with three slices of bread on it.
‘The oil’s behind you,’ he said.
‘Perfect.’ Totò looked at him with pity.
‘Would you like some garlic? I’ve also got some sun-dried tomatoes and a peperonata I made today, or I could give you—’
‘This is fine, Totò, I’m a happy man.’
‘As you wish, Inspector.’ Bordelli prepared his starvation diet. He poured a little oil on to the bread, then added a drop of vinegar and a pinch of salt. Totò, meanwhile, had got back to work. He was wrestling with a rabbit, in a sort of hand-to-hand combat. Then a pan started to smoke, and the cook poured a tinful of tomatoes into it and started crushing them with a fork.
‘Tell me a little about this French stuff, Inspector … What’ve they got up there that’s so special compared to here?’
‘Don’t take it personally, Totò, but I think French cooking is the best in the world.’ Totò smiled compassionately.
‘Sure, sure, I can believe it. But how do they do pork, these French? Eh? And sausages? And aubergines? And fegatelli? I’d really like to see how they do fegatelli.’31
‘I seemed to have touched a sore spot, Totò.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because I think that the best fate a liver can have is to end up in the hands of a French chef.’
‘Oh yeah? And what about pizza? Have they even got pizza, those potato-eaters?’ Bordelli realised he was treading on thin ice and tried to beat a retreat.
‘I’ll buy you a good book for Christmas, Totò. It’s called France at Table; I saw it in a shop window.’
‘You’re wasting your time, Inspector, I don’t know how to read,’ Totò lied, since he read La Nazione daily.
‘You could just look at the pictures.’
‘I guess I’ll have Nina read it to me.’
‘Who’s Nina?’
‘Haven’t I told you, Inspector? I’ve got a girlfriend now.’
‘Since when?’
‘Ah, that’s asking too much …’ the cook said, flashing a manly smile.
Bordelli asked for some wine to celebrate, and ended up eating a couple of sausages with peppers. They talked about Nina and love in general, took coffee together, drank some grappa, and smoked a cigarette. When the inspector finally came out after three, after struggling to refuse to go for a spin in Totò’s souped-up Fiat 600, he felt like sleeping. Luckily it had stopped raining, and so a long walk was in order. To avoid the Christmas crowds, he went towards the Mugnone, crossed the river, and turned right. Odoardo’s face came and went in his mind … Was the lad left-handed or not? But there was another problem nagging him: Rosa’s present. Pyjamas? A teapot? Or maybe that little blue horse in Murano glass?
Walking under the bare plane trees, he thought of Marisa. Beautiful Marisa. That was where he’d last seen her, with that Marco chap who was bothering her. But who knew whether the young rascal had really been bothering her. Perhaps Marisa was only being a little coquettish that day, as befitted a spoilt girl well aware that she was as beautiful as the sun … That’s quite enough, Inspector. You’re like one of those old codgers who always repeat the same things. Before the Ponte Rosso, he crossed the street and went into the Garden of the Locomotive. He hadn’t been there for a long time. It was a lovely place, and at that hour it was empty. The old steam engine parked on the lawn was as impressive as ever. Big and black with red wheels. Bordelli collapsed on to a bench in front of the large art nouveau greenhouse. He lit a cigarette and tried not to think about Marisa … as a way of not thinking about Milena …
The sky was one dark cloud, and it was almost night outside. The Christmas atmosphere filtered into his office, even through the closed windows. The flickers of a few flashing lights passed lightly through the panes, and at moments he could hear the sad laments of the zampogne in the distance. Bordelli ran a hand over his face. He couldn’t wait until Epiphany put an end to it all.
He rang Taddei and asked him to fetch a coffee, and while he was waiting, he imagined for the thousandth time Odoardo stabbing the loan shark in the neck with the scissors … Odoardo with his face as hard as stone and his hate-filled eyes that looked as if they were about to explode … and with the scissors in his left hand.
‘Shit …’ he said suddenly, slapping his forehead. Rosa’s present! He’d forgotten all about it, distracted by his pointless daydreams. He glanced at his watch. Only three hours left before the shops closed. Dashing out of his office, he ran into Taddei in the corridor, coffee in hand.
‘Drink it yourself, I haven’t got time,’ he said, walking past him. Taddei mumbled something and just stood there, watching him hurry away.
Bordelli got into the Beetle, waving at Mugnai as he drove out of the courtyard. The poor cop looked gloomy … not surprising for someone who was about to spend Christmas Eve in his guard booth with La Settimana Enigmistica,32 trying to finish at least one of those bloody crossword puzzles.
To avoid getting struck in traffic, Bordelli steered clear of the centre of town and passed by way of the Viali, where things were moving fairly well. It had been only a few years since traffic signals had replaced the cops on pedestals who used to wave their arms all day, rain or shine, and go crazy during the Christmas season. At Epiphany they would receive gifts from the shopowners, like town doctors in times gone by. It was all different now. The cars and motorcycles had all grown e
normously in size, and in their place there were now automatic traffic cops.
Bordelli wanted to leave the car outside his home and walk to the centre of town. At this point he was practically resigned to buying that stupid little blue Murano horse … and hoping it hadn’t already been bought by someone else. Maybe Rosa would even like it. He wondered whether the saleswoman in boots still resented him. Maybe she wouldn’t even recognise him.
He drove past the suspension bridge of San Leopoldo and saw there was quite a bit of traffic bottled up at Porta San Frediano, so he went straight on in order to pass by way of Piazza Tasso, but Viale Raffaello and Viale Aleardi were also fairly blocked. Little by little he managed to get close to home, but he couldn’t find a parking spot. It was the first time this had ever happened to him. Crowds of people burdened with colourful packages walked up and down the pavements. Some looked rather tired, as if they’d just finished breaking up the ground with a hoe. It was as though the entire province had descended on the centre of Florence at the very last minute and decided to park in San Frediano. It didn’t seem like the same neighbourhood. He kept driving slowly down the narrow streets, searching for a hole in which to stick his car. The little coloured lights were giving him a headache. After fifteen minutes of reconnoitering, he finally found a spot in Piazza del Carmine, not far from Badalamenti’s place. It was already half past five. He locked the Beetle and instinctively looked up at the usurer’s windows. The shutters were open, and the windows looked dark. Until a month ago, whenever he walked by he would look up, see the windows illuminated, and think: ‘Sooner or later I’m gonna get you, you bastard.’
