Death in August

by Marco Vichi

  Before going back to the office he decided to drop in on old Gastone in Borgo Tegolaio. He wanted him to hear the VW backfire a couple of times. Gastone’s garage was where Tenaglia worked, a great big lad who couldn’t buy a lucky break and for whom Bordelli had found a job at the garage to keep him out of jail. He still hadn’t gone to see him at work, but he’d heard that things were going pretty well. Tenaglia wanted nothing so much as to get his hands on automobile engines. It was almost a disease for him. He loved plunging into the entrails of cars to find the illness to cure, it had always been his dream. But usually nobody wanted to take on a guy like him; a gigantic ex-convict usually inspired fear. And so he had kept on stealing cars and driving them down to Naples. Old Gastone, however, had faith in Bordelli. He hired the kid and every so often would phone the inspector to thank him for sending the big lug his way.

  Bordelli turned on to Borgo Tegolaio and pulled up in front of the garage. He immediately spotted Tenaglia’s silhouette struggling with a Fiat 1005. Gastone was in a corner, cleaning something with a rag. Seeing the inspector walk in, they both dropped everything and came towards him, greasy hands extended.

  ‘So, Inspector, what are you doing still in town while everyone else is roasting their bum on the beach?’ said Gastone.

  ‘And what about you two?’

  Gastone gave a half-nod and smiled.

  ‘We’re crazy, Inspector,’ he said. And he pulled out a bottle of port and three tavern glasses. There was no way to say no; they would have felt offended. Tenaglia’s forehead was dripping sweat like a fountain, but he looked happy.

  ‘Any problem with your armoured car, Inspector?’ he asked.

  ‘It keeps backfiring, as if it’s got digestive problems.’

  ‘Lemme have a listen; noises are my speciality,’ said the giant.

  ‘That’s all I’m asking.’

  ‘Get in and we’ll give her a whirl.’

  Gastone intervened.

  ‘Just go alone, Tenaglia. You don’t mind, do you, Inspector?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  That’s funny, thought Bordelli. A car thief driving a policeman’s car. Tenaglia went and scrubbed his hands so as not to dirty the steering wheel, then hopped into the VW and pushed the seat as far back as it could go, though he still had his knees in his mouth. Then he drove off in a manner quite unlike Bordelli’s, as if pulling out from the starting gate at a racetrack. The roar of the engine at high throttle could be heard fading down the narrow, hazy streets. At the first downshift, a kind of shot rang out, as the Beetle continued down the road towards diagnosis.

  Gastone took Bordelli by the elbow and led him into what he called his office: two square metres of linoleum and a small table strewn with incomprehensible sheets of paper. Gastone seemed in a confidential mood.

  ‘Don’t tell him, Inspector … but I’ve got no relatives, I have nobody. I’ve already been to see the solicitor … I’m going to leave the garage to him.’

  ‘You always did say you wanted to leave it to someone who knew the ropes.’

  Suddenly they heard the German rumble of the Beetle returning to base. An entirely new rumble, generated by Tenaglia’s driving. The giant pulled the car into the garage, gunning the engine one last time and stepping out of the car with a smile on his lips.

  ‘It’s the spark ignition, Inspector. The petrol’s not burning up completely in the cylinders, and so it pops in the pipes.’

  ‘Is it serious?’

  ‘We just gotta fix the carburation; I can do it in a jiffy.’ He went to get a screwdriver and lifted the bonnet. Bordelli watched him open a small, mysterious box and delicately stick the screwdriver inside. A minute later Tenaglia raised his head.

  ‘Start ’er up, Inspector.’

  Bordelli obeyed and, at the giant’s orders, revved the engine for a good minute. Tenaglia then lowered the bonnet with a thud.

  ‘All taken care of, Inspector. If it happens again, I’ll eat my hat.’

  Bordelli turned off the engine and got out of the car.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ‘Any time.’

  ‘How much do I owe you, Gastone?’

  The old mechanic raised his hands.

  ‘Don’t even mention it, Inspector.’

  Bordelli went up to Tenaglia.

  ‘How much do I owe you?’ he said, pulling out a thousand-lira note. The young man spread his arms, as if to move them away from the money.

  ‘I don’t want anything,’ he said.

  ‘C’mon, Tenaglia, it’s like you pulled an aching tooth from my mouth.’

  ‘A thousand lire is too much, Inspector.’

  ‘It’s not a thousand lire. It’s a way to say thanks.’

  He entered his office, pulled the shutters to, and lay back in his chair as best he could. His intention was to reread the transcript of the Morozzi interview. But, as usual, it was too hot. He sent Mugnai for coffee and a couple of beers. While waiting he started thinking about his fifty-three years of life, how brief they had been and yet how full. A very long time ago he had asked himself how and when one realises one is old. Now, perhaps, he knew. One day he had happened to think about the past, and in so doing, he had felt very melancholy. That must have been the exact moment when he turned old. Before that, memories had only been faraway images, more or less faded, a weightless train of events; but after that day they had become something entirely different, something hard to define, part consolation, part resignation.

  Mugnai knocked. He had two puddles of sweat under his armpits.

  ‘Here you are, Inspector. Coffee and beer.’

  ‘Thanks. Just put it right down here.’

  ‘Need anything else?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  Mugnai wiped his brow with the sleeve of his uniform.

  ‘Half an hour ago a man called for you, sir, a certain Dante.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said he’d call back later.’

  ‘Good.’

  Mugnai went out and Bordelli lit what he defined as his second cigarette of the day. But perhaps he was cheating. He smoked it while drinking his coffee and thinking about the war. He was unable to forget those years; they were still with him, as present and real as his own hands. August 1944 had been hot; and their dirty uniforms stank of sweat. He had gone out on patrol with Piras Sr, machine gun slung over his shoulder, finger on the trigger. The Germans were in the vicinity, as always, just over the hill, quartered in small villages abandoned by all but a few old, terrorised peasants. Piras and he walked along shoulder to shoulder, scanning the horizon with their eyes. The countryside lay fallow; mines had taken root in place of grain, but the wild flowers didn’t give a damn about the war and still blossomed everywhere, filling the valleys with colour. In an abandoned farmhouse they found an almost whole ham of prosciutto hidden under some straw. It was like a vision. They ate it in big hunks, cutting it with their daggers, then put it back in its place. When they returned to base after dark, their throats burned from the salted meat. Next day the thought of the prosciutto drove them back to the abandoned house, this time with a piece of stale bread. Crawling through the high grass all the way to the door, they entered carefully, preceded by the machine-gun barrel. There was nobody there. But they quickly discovered that the prosciutto had been partly eaten, almost certainly by some Nazi patrol. A good chunk of it was gone. They sat down, backs to the wall, and pulled out the bread. It seemed like a dream to be able to eat the stuff. It reminded them of the snacks their mothers used to make for them, centuries before.

  As they chewed their last morsel, he and Piras looked at one another. They had to decide what to do with the remaining ham. They now knew not only that they were not the only ones eating it, but that the others were Nazis. In the end they quietly smiled and put the prosciutto back under the straw. When they returned the following day, again the ham had been eaten. By this point it became clear that the Germans had caught on. It went on this way f
or several days: one Italian bite, one German bite, down to the bone. It was almost touching, but mostly it was absurd. Tomorrow they might shoot a Kraut and dispatch him to the next world, though he might be one of those with whom they had shared the prosciutto.

  Bordelli crushed the butt of his cigarette in the ashtray and remained pensive for a few minutes. Then he stood up with a sigh, got in the car and went to Forensic Medicine to see Diotivede. The heat didn’t reach the lab. Aside from the stink of disinfectants, it was a kind of paradise.

  The doctor was preparing some slides for the microscope, humming through his nose, which was rather unusual. Diotivede never sang. Bordelli went up to him, hands in his pockets.

  ‘You in a good mood?’ he asked.

  Diotivede looked at him askance.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘You’re singing.’

  ‘I don’t see the connection. Black slaves used to sing, too.’

  ‘Well, I’ve never heard you singing before.’

  ‘Actually, I wasn’t singing.’

  Bordelli realised the conversation was going nowhere and therefore changed the subject.

  ‘So, the dinner’s all set for Wednesday,’ he said.

  ‘Have you asked your friend about bean soup alla lombarda?’

  ‘He said it’s one of his specialities. He must have spent a holiday in San Vittore.’

  ‘And they say you never learn anything in prison.’

  ‘It’s a question of character, dear doctor. There are those who go to university and remain ignorant, and there are those who become cultured behind bars.’

  The doctor put his slides in place and began his magical journey through the world of living microorganisms. He started droning again as before. It must have been an operatic aria, but it remained unrecognisable.

  ‘It that Carmen? asked Bordelli.

  ‘Barber’, said the doctor, still humming.

  The inspector felt like arguing.

  ‘So you are singing …’

  ‘Call it whatever you like,’ said Diotivede, who kept on humming. When he was focused on his microscope, he was able to stand as still as a statue. If Bordelli ever sculpted a monument to him, he would portray him like that, hunched over his microscope.

  All at once Diotivede tore himself away from the microscope and went up to a slab, raising the sheet, exposing a stocky body with a bloated belly. It was a man of about fifty whose skin had turned grey. Round his dry, nearly blackened lips was a layer of coagulated, yellowish saliva.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Bordelli asked. Diotivede had rubber gloves on his hands and was poking the corpse’s belly, seeking the right point to begin cutting. Fascinated, the inspector followed those expert hands as they traced a path from the navel to the ribs. ‘You going to open him now?’ he asked the doctor.

  ‘I’m running late. They wanted it done this morning.’

  ‘Why don’t you request a helper?’

  ‘I’ve tried. The ministry said that when yours truly checks out, they’ll send a new doctor,’ Diotivede said bitterly.

  ‘How thoughtful of them.’

  ‘It’s probably better that way. Who knows what kind of person they would send?’

  ‘Such faith …’

  Diotivede interrupted his work, turning serious.

  ‘When I die, make sure nobody opens me up, all right?’ he said.

  ‘Maybe I’ll die first.’

  ‘Don’t change the subject. Will you prevent them from cutting me in two? I want an answer.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘I don’t want some youngster learning the ropes on my mortal remains. Swear that you won’t let them do it.’

  ‘There are certain circumstances in which-’

  ‘Swear it,’ Diotivede interrupted him.

  ‘You know perfectly well that it also depends on the cause of death.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn. Swear it.’

  ‘And what if I’m unable?’

  ‘Just swear to it. At any rate, I’ll never know.’

  ‘I swear,’ said Bordelli, sighing. Diotivede finally seemed satisfied and returned to the corpse. He sank the tip of his scalpel into the hollow of the dead man’s stomach, going deeper and deeper. They heard a snap, then a burst of air. Smelly gas came pouring out as the stomach deflated. The blade slowly continued along its path, without so much as a single drop of blood oozing from the lips of the cut. Setting down the scalpel, Diotivede widened the aperture with his hands.

  ‘Who is he?’ Bordelli asked.

  ‘Some poor bloke they found dead in the middle of the street.’

  ‘Murder?’

  ‘Looks more like a heart attack.’

  ‘I hate those words.’

  ‘I could call it cardiac arrest, if you prefer.’

  ‘You’re a true friend.’

  ‘Would you hand me that basin, please?’ Diotivede had extracted the liver and held it in his hands, waiting to set it down.

  The moment had come to pay a call on Rodrigo. Driving through the streets, Bordelli started quibbling with himself: Why was he going to see Rodrigo? And for whose sake? For Zia Camilla’s? For Rodrigo’s? Or for his own? And if he was doing it for his own sake, what was the reason? So as not to feel guilty in his auntie’s eyes? To do his moral duty? Or was it merely for curiosity’s sake? There was no question that he found Rodrigo’s spinsterish bitterness terribly amusing. Maybe, all things considered, that was the real reason.

  He parked his Beetle a couple of streets away from his cousin’s flat and continued on foot. It was always best to get a breath of air before visiting Rodrigo. When he got to the main entrance, he instinctively looked up to the fourth floor. The building was not very pleasant to look at, overloaded with monumental motifs as it was. Rodrigo’s shutters were closed. Bordelli rang the intercom, but no one answered. He rang again, repeatedly, with no result. Finally he squashed the button and held it down a long time, and suddenly the lock started clicking frantically. Bordelli climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. Finding Rodrigo’s door closed, he knocked.

  ‘Who the fuck is it?’ he heard someone call from behind the door. Strange. Normally Rodrigo never used certain words.

  ‘Is that you, Rodrigo?’

  ‘No, it’s the big bad wolf.’

  ‘Could you open the door?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘To have a little chat.’

  ‘I really don’t feel like it.’

  ‘All right, I’ll go. But I’m going to come back tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, and the day-’

  He heard a click, and the door slowly opened. Rodrigo was in his underpants, a week’s growth of beard on his face. He stood in the doorway, as if guarding the flat.

  ‘It’s nice to see you finally dirty and debased like the rest of humanity,’ said Bordelli, genuinely pleased.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Would you let me inside?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Shall we have a drink?’

  ‘I hate it when people answer a question with a question.’

  ‘Then let me in.’

  ‘Mamma sent you, didn’t she?’

  ‘I haven’t seen Zia Camilla for a month. Anyway, why would she send me to see you?’

  ‘You’re a liar.’

  ‘I’m a policeman.’

  Rodrigo sighed with irritation, stepped aside, and flung open the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  The flat was dirty. On the floor near the entrance were some strange shards pushed up against the skirting board and, high up on the wall, a large, sticky-looking stain. The air smelled musty. The telephone was unplugged. Bordelli followed his cousin inside, eyeing his naked legs. Rodrigo looked good for fifty: no fat, no hanging skin. They entered the study, and Rodrigo went over to the window, opened it brusquely, and stood in front of it in his underpants. He started watching the few cars passing along the avenue below.

  �
�Find yourself a place to sit down,’ he said. What had once been his study now looked like a chicken coop. Bordelli took off his shirt and tossed it joyfully on to a chair. He really liked this situation; it was like finding a friend who had fallen into the hands of the Germans. He managed to find a spot on an armchair by removing a tray covered with leftovers. The sofa was nearly invisible under a layer of dirty clothes.

  ‘Nice little mess you’ve got here,’ said Bordelli, looking around. Rodrigo made a guttural sound, lingered for another minute in front of the window, looking out, then closed it and left the room. When he returned he had a pair of trousers on and a glass in his hand.

  ‘What are you drinking?’ asked Bordelli.

  Rodrigo looked into the glass.

  ‘I don’t know. Want some?’

  ‘Just a drop, thanks.’

  Rodrigo shuffled off and returned with a bottle he dropped between Bordelli’s legs.

  ‘Find yourself a glass,’ he said. Bordelli glanced at the label. Triple Sec, a sweet liqueur they used to get drunk on in childhood. So as not to seem unfriendly, he went into the kitchen to wash a glass. Returning to the chicken coop, he poured himself some of the sugary glue.