by Marco Vichi
‘You’re direct heirs, aren’t you?’ he said.
The two brothers exchanged a quick glance. They moved about in their chairs, as if stalling. Giulio turned round to look at the inscrutable Piras, for only a second. Anselmo wiped his face again.
‘There’s also our uncle, Zia Rebecca’s brother,’ he said.
‘Well, a good part would go to you. At least half, I believe.’
Giulio looked shocked.
‘That’s certainly not our fault,’ he said.
‘No, but it usually constitutes a good motive,’ said Bordelli.
Anselmo gave his brother a dirty look, then tried to set things right with a smile.
‘But our auntie died of asthma, didn’t she?’
Bordelli started drumming his fingers on the desk.
‘Are you ready to start writing, Piras?’
‘Ready.’
The inspector looked at one then the other brother — especially Giulio, who seemed more sensitive to psychological pressure.
‘Good. Tell me the names of the restaurant and the nightclub where you went to make merry, and the exact times of arrival and departure at both places.’
Piras’s typewriter suddenly started clacking. Anselmo gulped and began to tremble slightly. He seemed deeply offended.
‘What is the meaning of this? Why all these questions? Are we suspects? And what of? Our aunt died of asthma, didn’t she?’
‘It’s not clear yet. I’m waiting for some test results. If it turns out your aunt died of natural causes, so much the better for everyone. But for now there are many doubts.’
‘Doubts? What kind of doubts?’
‘Dr Morozzi, I didn’t say you killed her. I only meant that it may not have been an accident.’
‘Then why all these questions?’
‘Yes, why?’ said Giulio, emboldened by his brother. Bordelli shrugged.
‘You shouldn’t worry too much about it. It’s just a formality, a procedure we have to go through. I’m sorry.’
The typewriter had fallen silent. Giulio raised a finger to ask whether he could speak, as if at school.
‘Should we call our lawyer?’ he asked. The inspector threw his hands up.
‘Do whatever you like, I don’t mind. But I repeat, there’s nothing to worry about. If this was a real interrogation, I wouldn’t be questioning the two of you together, now, would I?’
Giulio looked at his brother, as if asking him to decide. Anselmo shrugged.
‘Well, if it’s only a formality …’ he said.
Bordelli leaned lazily forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the desk.
‘So, in the meantime, what do you say we have a beer?’
The two brothers nodded, then exchanged a look of surprise. The inspector glanced over at Piras.
‘Will you have one too?’
‘It’s fine with me.’
Bordelli dialled an internal extension.
‘Mugnai, could you go to the bar on the corner and pick up four beers? Just put it on our account and tell ’em I’ll drop by later.’
Giulio pulled out a rolled-up handkerchief and started wiping his face. By this point Anselmo had two fingers planted firmly inside his collar, as if he were afraid of being strangled by his tie. They all sat in silence, as if they couldn’t talk before the beers arrived. Bordelli leaned back in his chair and stared at the Morozzi brothers’ ties, spellbound. He had always thought a tie was a very strange thing, a tongue of fabric that hangs from the neck … and when you reach out to grab the salt, it ends up in your soup. It had never made sense to him. He must have two or three of his own in a wardrobe somewhere, old gifts from women who hadn’t really understood him and wanted him to be different from what he was. As he began to drift off into old memories, Mugnai knocked at the door.
‘Your beer, Inspector.’
‘You’re as quick as lightning.’
Mugnai glanced in passing at the sweat-soaked brothers and walked out, waddling like a seal. Bordelli reached into a drawer and pulled out some paper cups, flipped off the bottle caps with his house keys and handed the brothers their beers. Piras got up to get his and immediately returned to the typewriter. All four took long, cool draughts. Giulio even shut his eyes in relief.
‘All right, then, tell me the names of the restaurant and the nightclub,’ said Bordelli.
‘The restaurant is called Il Coccodrillo,’ said Anselmo. ‘We reserved a table. You can check, if you like.’
‘I will, don’t you worry about that.’
Anselmo looked offended. He was about to say something when Giulio impulsively cut in.
‘And then we went dancing at the Mecca,’ he said.
Bordelli let his eyelids droop, with the look of someone who has a long afternoon ahead of him and is in no hurry.
‘What time did you get to the restaurant?’
‘Half past eight. Right, Giulio?’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘And what time did you leave?’
‘Roughly, about ten thirty … right, Giulio?’
‘Yes, yes, about ten thirty … more or less.’
‘And did you go dancing straight away, or did you do something else first?’
‘Straight away.’
‘And how late did you stay?’
‘We were the last to leave … right, Giulio?’
‘Yes, yes, the very last.’
Bordelli looked over at Piras.
‘Did you write that down, Piras?’
‘Certainly did, Inspector.’
‘Good. What time does this Mecca close?’
‘At five o’clock, right, Giulio?’
‘Yes, five.’
‘Were you alone?’
‘We were with our wives, Inspector. But at the Mecca we ran into a friend, who was also with his wife. They’re from Milan.’
‘Yes, yes, from Milan.’
‘And you all stayed there together until five o’clock in the morning?’
‘No, Inspector, the Milanese couple left much earlier, round midnight, I think … They have a small child … Right, Giulio?’
‘Yes, a little boy.’
Bordelli was beginning to think that at any moment the Morozzi brothers would take each other by the hand.
‘And neither of you has any children?’ he asked.
‘Not yet … Why?’
‘Just curious.’
Bordelli waited for Piras to finish clacking, then continued.
‘What’s the name of your Milanese friends?’
Anselmo took a deep breath.
‘Salvetti. He owns a zip factory. In the summer they stay at the villa next to ours, at Cinquale.’
Bordelli started to massage his chin, looking pensive, like someone trying to grasp a hidden truth. The Morozzi brothers looked at him with suspicion.
‘When did you last see your aunt?’
‘A couple of weeks ago, before leaving for the coast,’ said Anselmo.
And his brother: ‘Yes, yes, a couple of weeks ago, a fortnight, more or less …’
The inspector was beginning to feel a powerful antipathy towards the two brothers. But he couldn’t let this influence him. He was well aware that murderers are very often quite likeable.
‘What sort of relations did you have with your aunt? I want you, Giulio, to answer me first.’
Giulio gave a start, as if he had just sat on a pin.
‘What sort of relations? Well, I’d say … rather good relations. Eh, Anselmo?’
‘Oh, yes … I’d say so myself, good relations … Quite good.’
Bordelli paused for a moment for Piras’s sake, taking advantage of the lull to finish his beer, which had already gone warm.
‘And what can you tell me about the inheritance?’
‘In what sense, may I ask?’
‘It’s a whole lot of money. The villa alone must be worth many millions, no?’
There was a momentary flash of joy in Anselmo’s eyes, but he quickly
suppressed it. Tilting his head sideways, he threw up his hands.
‘Well, what can we do about that?’ he said in the tone of someone who has just punctured a tyre.
‘It’s certainly not our fault,’ Giulio confirmed.
Bordelli felt almost fascinated by these two imbeciles.
‘What sort of work do you do?’ he asked.
‘We deal in property. Why?’ Anselmo asked, alarmed.
‘Why are you getting upset? I only need it for the report.’
‘I’m certainly not upset. Do I seem upset to you? Why should I get upset?’
‘What kind of car do you drive?’ asked Bordelli, ignoring Anselmo’s questions.
‘What’s the car got to do with this?’
‘Just to make conversation.’
Giulio gulped, sounding like the bathroom sink.
‘A Fiat 600 Multipla,’ said Anselmo.
‘Me too,’ said Giulio.
‘But when we go to the coast we take only one car.’
Biting an unlit cigarette, Bordelli got ready to ask the final questions.
‘And what can you tell me about your Uncle Dante?’
Both brothers smiled idiotically.
‘Uncle Dante? He’s a bit strange, someone with a couple of screws loose … Right, Giulio?’
‘Yes, yes, a bit strange, very strange, in fact,’ he said with a giggle.
Bordelli could no longer bear to listen to them or to see their faces.
‘Strange in what sense?’ he asked, looking at them with malice. Anselmo shrugged.
‘He stays shut up in a great big room all day, mixing chemicals and building gadgets that are totally useless,’ he said with a certain disdain. Bordelli remembered Dante’s broad, unruly face and felt great compassion for the whimsical giant who jumped from one subject to another when he spoke. Talking to him was like entering another world, where imagination, play and intellectual freedom were more important than anything else. It irked the inspector to hear others refer to him as mad.
‘Dr Morozzi, how long has it been since you last saw your Uncle Dante?’
‘Maybe three months, maybe four,’ said Anselmo.
Bordelli looked at Giulio.
‘And you?’
‘Me too, yes. We always go there together, to see my uncle.’
Bordelli gestured as if to conclude.
‘Piras, could you read the transcript back to us, please?’ he said. Piras stopped his clattering, pulled the sheet from the typewriter and stood up, scraping the legs of his chair on the floor. Planting himself next to the Morozzis, he read the questions and answers in an indifferent voice, gave the report to the inspector, and returned to his post. Bordelli handed the transcript to the two brothers and leaned back in his chair.
‘If everything’s all right with you, please sign at the bottom.’ The Morozzis hesitated for a moment, then signed, wetting the document with sweat. Bordelli looked first at Anselmo, and then at Giulio, staring long and hard at them.
‘Good. Now we’re all done,’ he said. At the sound of these words, Anselmo’s flabby face relaxed. But after a calculated pause, Bordelli added:
‘… for the moment, that is.’
Both brothers gave a start. Giulio looked at Anselmo as if awaiting a reply.
‘What do you mean, for the moment?’ Anselmo asked.
The inspector tried to seem as polite and contrite as possible, as if wanting to apologise for the inescapable annoyances of bureaucracy.
‘I’m sorry about your holiday, but unfortunately I must ask you not to leave the city until the investigation is over.’
‘What investigation, Inspector?’
‘You want to tell them, Piras?’
Piras stood up and planted himself beside the desk.
‘The post-mortem results clearly show that Signora Pedretti-Strassen was murdered,’ he said with great gusto.
Giulio grabbed hold of his brother’s elbow, lower lip dangling like a ripe fig. Anselmo squirmed in his chair, and when he spoke his voice came out hoarse.
‘No, I’m sorry, Inspector, perhaps I’ve misunderstood … First you said you didn’t know anything yet … and that, actually, it was almost certain that … Aunt …’
Bordelli hunched his shoulders and made the face of someone who had to suffer the whims of fate.
‘It’s a nasty job, being a policeman. Sometimes we’re forced to tell lies … though always with the best of intentions, of course.’
Both brothers stammered some half-formed words, opening and closing their sweaty hands like two newborns.
‘But does that mean … we’re considered suspects?’ asked Anselmo, eyes popping.
‘I’d say so,’ Bordelli said serenely, fiddling with his pen. Anselmo made a weary gesture of rebellion.
‘That doesn’t seem right to me, Inspector. Why didn’t you tell us that to start with? It just doesn’t seem right. We’re honest people. We work like slaves year round … And now you come and tell us that … we’re suspects! This is really … unacceptable!’
Carried away and perhaps fascinated by his own voice and courage, he was about to slam his hand down on the desk when he looked at Bordelli and froze, hand in the air. Wiping away a drop of sweat from one eye, he said again, in falsetto:
‘We’re honest people …’
Piras intervened of his own accord.
‘We merely need to confirm your alibis, nothing more. If you’re innocent, you have nothing to fear,’ he said, exchanging a complicitous glance with Bordelli. In the dead silence someone’s stomach gurgled audibly. Giulio blushed and pressed a hand to his belly. Bordelli smiled coldly.
‘You can go now,’ he said, crossing his arms. Anselmo loosened his tie and stood up, gasping for air, lips moving like a fish’s. He had left a sweaty imprint on the chair. He took Giulio by the arm and made him stand up.
‘Let’s go,’ he said, looking deeply offended.
‘Piras, see them out for me, if you would,’ said Bordelli, lighting the cigarette he had kept unlit in his mouth for God knows how long.
The two brothers turned their backs and went out, escorted by Piras. Although the windows in the corridor were all open, the air was stagnant and stifling. Anselmo took laboured steps, dragging his feet, his brother panting behind him, staring at the back of his head. Their wives were waiting for them in the street, both blonde, in high heels and dressed for the beach, ready to return to the coast. Their stylish, oversized sunglasses made them look like two giant insects. They all climbed into a blazing Fiat 600 Multipla without saying a word, and drove off. All of Anselmo’s rage could be heard in the way he shifted the gears.
Piras returned and, seeing the smoke rising to the ceiling, waved his hand to dispel it.
‘So, Piras, what do you make of the dear brothers?’
Piras shrugged.
‘Not exactly the most likeable pair I’ve ever met,’ he said.
Bordelli started drumming his fingers on the transcript.
‘Tomorrow dress in civvies. We’re going to the beach.’
It was hotter than hell in Toto’s kitchen. The oily, burning smoke stuck to the skin like glue, but the baccala alla livornese was sublime, and the cool white wine went down without effort. Bordelli had rolled his sleeves up past the elbow. Toto was cleaning squid in the sink. He was in the middle of a monologue, telling another of his blood-curdling stories about home. It was difficult to stop him.
‘… and so, next day, pardon the language, they found him in a straw hut with a fish shoved up his arse, one of those fishes with prickles on its back, the kind that go in easy but come out hard, if you get the picture …’
‘You wouldn’t happen to have a little more baccala, Toto, would you?’
‘Certainly, Inspector.
‘Just a little bit.’ Toto went to get the pan and dished out another whole serving, with lots of sauce. It was like starting lunch all over again, wine and all. Bordelli didn’t even try to protest; he knew it was no u
se. The only way to spare himself would have been not to ask for anything. Toto went back to skinning his squid and resumed his story.
‘It took them all night to pull it out, Inspector. You can imagine the screams.’ He recounted all the details of the procedure from A to Z, with due respect to the victim, of course. Then he launched into another story, someone who had had his ear cut off.
‘And then they made him eat it, just like that, raw. He had to swallow the whole thing.’
Bordelli swallowed his last bite of baccala.
‘Don’t you know any nice love stories, Toto?’
‘Of course I do, Inspector.’ And while removing the bone from the squid, he told the story of a certain Antonino, some poor bloke who wanted to marry the daughter of a rich landowner. Naturally they told him to keep away and slammed the door in his face, and so one night, Antonino sneaked on to the landowner’s property and set fire to the wheat.
‘I was just a little kid, but I can still see it, Inspector. The smoke was visible for twenty miles around. People came from all the neighbouring towns to watch. There was a good sea breeze and the fire charged ahead like a stampede of horses. Not one grain of wheat was spared.’
Not waiting to hear what kind of end poor Antonino came to, Bordelli got up to leave.
‘Duty calls, Toto.’
‘You won’t have a coffee?’
‘I’ll have it at the office.’
‘Come back soon, Inspector.’
‘Where else would I go?’
‘I say it for your sake, Inspector. In the coming days I’m going to make swordfish my own special way.’
‘I’ll be sure not to miss it.’
Walking out on to the street, Bordelli ran into a wall of heat. It was half past two. The air quivered incandescently above the asphalt. A large yellow cat was sleeping open-mouthed on the seat of a Lambretta, undone by the heat.
Before getting into his Volkswagen, Bordelli opened all the windows. The plastic covering of the seats was soft and emitted a noxious, sickly-sweet smell. Down the street came a Motobecane racing bicycle, ridden by a man wearing only underpants and singing. Bordelli envied him with all his heart. Then he summoned his courage and got into his Beetle. The side vents, opened all the way, deflected the wind on to him, but it made little difference. The steering wheel was so hot he could only manoeuvre it with one finger. The white wine he had drunk was behaving in the usual fashion: it goes down easily, but then suddenly your ears start ringing. It was impossible to visit Toto without endangering one’s health. All the same, it was fun to sit down in his kitchen to eat and chat, watching the greasiest cook in the world at work, four foot eleven inches of peasant joy. Bordelli would definitely have included him in the hypothetical, impossible family he sometimes imagined for himself in his old age: a farmhouse in the vineyards, six or seven faithful friends, walks in the country, endless dinners and an avalanche of memories, listening to or telling stories of the past by the fire in winter, or under the pergola in summer, with the crickets filling your ears. And every so often — why not? — a round of bocce behind the kitchen garden. Diotivede, by then pushing a hundred, could care for wounded animals, Botta and Toto would be fixtures in the kitchen, Fabiani the shrink could attend to bouts of depression, and Rosa could brighten the cloistered life with her immaculate naivety. He could even imagine the visionary Dante there, who would charm everyone with gadgets for cutting mozzarella or peeling bananas.
