by Marco Vichi
‘We’ll get the dogs’ home to take care of them.’
It was still raining hard when Bordelli got to the police station. He walked into his office dripping water and laid his open trench coat down over the radiator. Then he went into the bathroom to dry himself off. Back in his office, while waiting to hear from Piras, he phoned Rosa to say hello. After a couple of rings, a woman whose voice he didn’t recognise picked up.
‘Yes, hello? With whom would you like to speak?’ The accent and tone sounded like a poor imitation of a noblewoman.
‘I’m sorry, I must have the wrong number,’ said Bordelli.
‘No, monkey, it’s me!’
‘Rosa! Why did you answer that way?’
‘Did you really not recognise me?’
‘It certainly didn’t sound like you.’
‘I was practising for the performance.’
‘What performance?’
‘My girlfriends and I are rehearsing a play.’
‘A play?’ asked Bordelli, somewhat surprised.
‘I get it, you think us whores only know how to do one thing,’ said Rosa, pretending to be offended. She loved to be won back. Bordelli tried to think of something nice to say, but nothing diplomatic came to mind.
‘Are you doing something by Shakespeare?’ he said at last. Rosa relaxed a little.
‘Go on, Shakespeare! It’s something I wrote myself. It’s fun and talks about some very deep things. I just know you’ll love it.’
‘When is the performance?’ asked Bordelli, taking his time.
‘Thursday, at my place. Only a select few are invited.’
‘Such a wonderful idea could only have come from you …’
‘Oh, it’s nothing special,’ Rosa said, laughing, embarrassed. She was very sensitive to flattery, and often reacted as though tickled. Now came the hard part, however.
‘I’m sorry, Rosa, I’m looking at my diary … I can’t make it on Thursday.’
‘Oh, you’re such a shit!’
‘There’s an important meeting here at headquarters …’ Silence.
‘Sometimes these things go on all night,’ Bordelli exaggerated, pretending to be disappointed.
‘Ah, what a shame! What a terrible, terrible shame!’
‘Hello? Rosa? Is that you?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, that was my character’s voice again. I’m afraid I can’t help myself,’ she said, chuckling.
‘It really is quite incredible. You’re unrecognisable. Are you supposed to be a noblewoman?’
‘Princess Doralice, mother of three daughters.’
‘I like what I’ve heard so far.’
‘But I was hoping you’d come, damn!’
‘I’ll come another time … Break a leg.’
‘Oh, you really are too kind,’ said Rosa as Princess Doralice.
‘I’m sure you’ll be great.’
‘Come and see me some time, you rat. I still have to give you your Christmas present.’
‘At last …’
‘Lout!’
‘It’s just that I’m curious.’ Rosa fired a barrage of kisses into the receiver and hung up. All was silent again in the office. It was almost six. Bordelli went up one floor and knocked at Commissioner Inzipone’s door to report to him on the problems at Santo Spirito. He wanted to get it over with quickly and didn’t even bother to sit down.
‘It’s all taken care of,’ he reassured the commissioner.
‘The case is closed.’
‘Did you find out who was doing it?’
‘The guy wasn’t bashing people at random, but for specific reasons. Now he no longer has those reasons, so there’s no problem any more.’
‘Can’t you tell me any more?’
‘There’s nothing more to tell,’ said Bordelli. There was a knock at the door. The commissioner grunted and the door opened. A pale, uniformed officer came in and saluted his superior.
‘Dr Pomella is here, sir,’ he said.
‘Give me five more minutes,’ said Inzipone, holding up an open hand. The officer turned and left, heels clacking, closing the door behind him.
‘Thank you, Bordelli, that sets my mind at rest. Is everything arranged concerning De Bono?’
‘I’m sending Canzano and Di Lello to get him tomorrow. The president’s not coming till the thirtieth, yes?’
‘Yes. I just wanted confirmation … What was it De Bono said last year? Rabozzi told me,’ Inzipone said, chuckling. He was almost always serious, but certain things made him laugh in earnest.
‘He yelled something like: “The Fighting Anarchists have planted bombs in the Parliament and the Vatican, and one word from me will blow them sky high!” The old crackpot …’ the commissioner said, still laughing. Bordelli put his hands in his pockets. He was not laughing.
‘Did you know De Bono has only one lung?’ he said. The commissioner’s laughter diminished to a smile.
‘Only one lung?’
‘The Fascists used to put him out in the square every morning and order him to give the Fascist salute to the Duce. And you know what he would do?’
‘What?’ Inzipone asked, serious now.
‘He would burp. To hear it now, it may not sound like such a big deal, but I don’t know how many people would have had the courage to do it. Obviously the Fascists didn’t appreciate the joke, and they would club him on the back. Then they’d take him back to his cell and start all over again the next morning … And so he lost a lung.’
‘I didn’t know that. Poor old man, I’m so sorry.’
‘He may look old, but he’s the same age as you, give or take a few years,’ said the inspector. Inzipone sighed.
‘What a terrible story …’
‘Oh, there’s worse,’ said Bordelli, looking the commissioner in the eye. Everybody knew that Inzipone had been one of those “forced” to adhere to the Republic of Salò, even though he’d come out of it clean as a whistle.
‘Still nothing on the murder of that … I can never remember his name,’ said the commissioner, glad to change the subject.
‘We’re working on it,’ said the inspector.
‘And how’s our boy Piras?’
‘He’s fine,’ said Bordelli. Then he waved and left the room without turning round. In the corridor was the fat Dr Pomella, slouching in an armchair, the bottoms of his trousers hiked up around mid-calf, exposing his black socks. The inspector nodded to him in greeting and continued on his way. Pomella was an errand boy for the Minister of the Interior, and Bordelli had never liked him. Back in his office, he turned his trench coat over on the radiator, then flopped into his chair with a sigh. He felt a little tired. He decided to skip the cigarettes, and after a few minutes of hesitation, he rang De Marchi.
‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’
‘Sorry, but … have you by any chance finished yet?’
‘I’d have called you myself, sir, as agreed.’
‘Well, I thought I’d try.’
‘I’ll have a look at that hair very soon, Inspector. I had to finish some analyses for the prosecutor of Siena, it’s taken a long time.’
‘Listen … don’t put anything in writing yet. This whole business is still only a hunch of mine. I’d rather check everything out first.’
‘You’ve already told me that, sir.’
‘Sorry. I’m a bit foggy today.’
‘Happens to us all, sir.’
‘Think you’ll manage it by this evening?’ Bordelli asked.
‘Sounds like you’re in a hurry, Inspector. I’ll stay late tonight and have a look at that hair for you, I promise,’ De Marchi said without a hint of annoyance.
‘That’s what I like to hear. If I’m not in the office you can find me at home.’
‘Will do, Inspector.’ They said goodbye, and Bordelli stood up. He felt nervous. He went over to the window and looked outside. Every so often a gust of wind caught the incessant drizzle in a swirl and blew it about, but the sky above was clearing. B
ordelli would gladly have smoked two cigarettes one after the other, but the idea that abstinence multiplied his desire for nicotine bothered him. The chemical link between mind and body seemed like an occult power against which he should defend himself. A man’s mind should be stronger than matter, he thought. Shit, what a brilliant idea. Very useful for trying to quit smoking. The telephone rang. It was Piras, as expected. He was calling from a public phone.
‘Let’s hear it,’ said Bordelli.
‘It’s all gone well so far, Inspector. We’ve arrested Pintus. He denies everything, but we’re still waiting for the ballistic evidence.’
‘Call me as soon as you get the results.’
‘I’ve discovered something else as well.’
‘Tell me everything without the guessing games, Piras.’
‘I searched through some of Pintus’s things and I believe I’ve discovered what his real name is. I found a letter written by a Fascist of the Salò government that was sent from the secretariat of the Party to a certain Ruggero Frigolin. He was named Second Commandant of the Asti Brigade …’
‘That doesn’t prove anything.’
‘Wait, Inspector. I also found a photograph of a baby boy, with Ruggero, 1913 written on the back. But here’s the best part. Pina Setzu, the late Benigno’s cousin, told a strange story about him the other day, a terrible experience Benigno had during the war …’ And Piras went on to recount the gist of Benigno’s brush with death in 1943.
‘And guess where it all took place,’ he said when he’d finished.
‘Near Asti.’
‘Exactly. I’m sure he’s the one, Inspector. Pintus and Frigolin are the same person.’
‘It was awfully stupid of him to keep that letter,’ said Bordelli.
‘Maybe he’d hidden it together with everything he’d stolen and then fished it back out after things had calmed down.’
‘Vanity plays nasty tricks sometimes.’
‘It’s him, Inspector, this time I’ll bet both my balls.’
‘In the meantime I’ll have a search conducted in the Veneto and Piedmont for this Frigolin, and we’ll see what turns up,’ said the inspector. Piras sighed into the receiver.
‘How is it that certain people are still around, Inspector?’
‘My dear Piras, after the war, for the sake of peace across the nation, between amnesties and pardons, the few gentlemen of Salò who had ended up in prison were released … And, in fact, many of them were kindly asked to resume their positions in the courts and police departments.’
‘Even war criminals?’
‘In the end, they all got off scot free. There were a few show trials for the big fish, just to look good in the public eye, but even they were set free after a while. The purge was just a dog-and-pony show, Piras. The authorities went much harder after the partisans who hadn’t turned in their weapons …’
‘Long live Italy, Inspector.’
‘To her everlasting glory …’
Listening to the rain, Bordelli took a sheet of paper and started writing out the telex message he wanted to send to all the police departments of the Veneto and the Piedmont. Before he’d finished, he picked up the in-house phone to call Tapinassi, then put it back down. He’d suddenly had another idea … He could ring Pietro Agostinelli, a former naval companion of his nicknamed Carnera because of his size.42 Admiral Agostinelli had entered the SIFAR at the time of its founding43 in 1949, and now had an even more important post in the newly formed SID, constituted just over a month earlier. They phoned each other once in a blue moon, usually for work-related reasons, but navy men formed much closer bonds than did those in the other branches of the armed forces. Bordelli glanced at his watch. Maybe Agostinelli was still in his office. The inspector looked up his number in the address book and rang the General Staff of the Navy in Rome. He squeezed his nose with finger and thumb to change his voice, and when someone picked up, he said:
‘When the lion raises its tail, all other beasts leave the trail …’
‘Who’s speaking, please?’ said a woman’s voice. Bordelli blushed and coughed as if clearing his throat.
‘Good evening, this is Inspector Bordelli of Florence Police. I’d like to speak to Admiral Agostinelli, please.’
‘Please hold. Thank you.’ There was a click and then silence. Half a minute later, there was another click.
‘Franco! How are you, old boy?’ said Agostinelli.
‘I’ve just made an ass of myself with your secretary.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘I recited the rhyme of the San Marco Regiment … Quando el leon alsa la coa …’
‘Good God, on your tongue it sounds like Portuguese,’ said Agostinelli.
‘How’s it going, Carnera? I’ll bet you have a flat arse by now, from all that sitting at a desk,’ said Bordelli.
‘Yes, but I get to play spy.’
‘Then I have a riddle for you.’
‘Let’s hear it.’
‘Got a pen and paper?’
‘No, wait just a minute while I send someone to cut down a tree.’
‘Are you so jolly because you get paid a lot to do nothing?’
‘No, it’s you who put me in this mood …’
‘Write this name down: Ruggero Frigolin, almost certainly born in ’13. He was probably a Second Commandant in the Black Brigades at Asti. That’s all I’ve got.’
‘What exactly do you want to know about him?’ asked Agostinelli, now professional.
‘Everything you can find out, and if you can manage to get a photo of him, it can be your belated Christmas present to me.’
‘Have you ordered other searches?’
‘I was about to send a telex to all police departments in the Veneto and Piedmont.’
‘Don’t bother. I’ll take care of everything myself,’ said the admiral.
‘It’s better not to get too many things going at once.’
‘Thanks, Pietro.’
‘Now you owe me one.’
‘Up the whale’s arse, sailor.’44
They hung up. Bordelli crumpled the page with the telex message and tossed it into the wastepaper basket. Then he grabbed his cigarettes and went out. It had stopped raining. There were a lot of things hanging and he felt restless. The test for Odoardo’s hair sample, the bullet shell … and he couldn’t wait to forget about the bloody Panorama of Montevideo.
He thought he’d go and have a glass of wine at the Fuori Porta tavern, then remembered that it was closed on Mondays. And deep down he didn’t really feel like drinking. It would make him feel like a feeble-minded old geezer trying to drink a woman off his mind.
He parked in Piazza Ferrucci and got out to stroll along the Lungarno, but after a few minutes it started raining again. Cold, fine drops. He got back into the Beetle and drove slowly round the Viali. There weren’t many people about. At last he decided to drop in on Diotivede at Careggi, just to have a chat and kill a little time.
Poor Diotivede, he thought. Three more years and they would put him out to pasture. It was anybody’s guess who would take his place. Perhaps an obnoxious young doctor full of himself, whom Bordelli would have to put up with for, well, not that long, really. Only five years … Shit, this hadn’t ever occurred to him before. There were only five years left before he became a pensioner with a passion for gardening.
He tried to imagine Diotivede sitting in a public garden, crumbling stale bread for the pigeons and wearing big brown slippers. He couldn’t picture it. Perhaps the old maniac really would set up a laboratory in his house so he could carry on studying bacteria in motion, and Bordelli would visit him every Sunday to bring him something rotten to squash between two slides for the microscope. A couple of old nitwits who couldn’t make up their minds to get out of the way.
When he entered the laboratory, he found the doctor sitting in a corner, one arm propped on the test-tube counter, in what looked like a very uncomfortable pose. He was staring at the bare white feet of a corpse on
the other side of the room, covered up to the head. Bordelli marvelled. He hardly ever saw Diotivede seated. Drawing near, he noticed that the doctor had a hand on his stomach and looked as if he was suffering.
‘You feel okay, Diotivede?’
‘Terrible, but it’ll pass.’
‘Is it Maria Conchita?’ Diotivede shook his head.
‘I ate too many chestnuts.’
‘My interpretation was much more poetic.’
‘And a lot less painful, I assure you.’
‘Anything I can do for you?’ The doctor gestured towards the corpse on the gurney.
‘If you really want to help, you can cut that gentleman over there in two, so I can get a headstart,’ he said.
‘You don’t say! I’ve been waiting all my life for this opportunity.’
‘The knives are on the table over there.’ Bordelli stuck a cigarette between his lips and started puffing on it as if it were lit.
‘You know, I just got a postcard from Uruguay … from a woman I liked very much,’ he said.
‘Oh really? And what did she say?’
‘Nothing special. But she did write to me.’
‘It’s a start,’ said the doctor, raising his eyebrows.
‘I don’t know why I told you that.’
‘Don’t worry, I can keep a secret.’
‘Go ahead and mock me, but I really did like that girl a lot.’
‘Eat some chestnuts and you’ll get over it, I promise.’
‘Thanks, you’re a real friend.’
‘If you’ve got nothing to do, why don’t you come with me to say hello to Baragli?’
When Bordelli got home, he filled the bathtub. He wasn’t hungry. He’d gone with Diotivede to see Baragli, and they’d stayed for a good half-hour. In spite of everything, the sergeant looked well. Or so it seemed.
He immersed himself up to his neck in the hot water and closed his eyes. He liked boiling himself in the tub, memory adrift … And from the tide of recollection surfaced a morning in ’44 when he was looking out over a valley through binoculars and saw some large black birds circling round the same point. They were cawing then swooping low, gliding over the meadow. It wasn’t hard to tell that they were feasting, and Bordelli decided to go and find out on what. He took two of his men and went down into the valley. They found the corpse of a smartly dressed English officer. He lay face down with his legs together and his face in the grass, one hand digging into the ground. His back was perforated by a high-calibre bullet. The birds had already started eating his ears, and they had to shoot to scatter them. Bordelli grabbed the officer’s hand and turned him over. The man’s disintegrating, blackened flesh oozed through his fingers like custard. He’d probably been dead for at least two weeks. Bordelli removed his ID tag and attached it to his belt. He would send it to British headquarters with the exact coordinates of the body’s position. The stench of death had stuck to his hands for a very long time afterwards …
