by Marco Vichi
‘Yes, they do. They’ve been coming here for many years.’ A bit farther away, a little girl with bruises on her knees was spreading out the last tablecloths, smoothing out the wrinkles with her open palms. Bordelli glanced at the fake fish hanging on the wall and felt a great weariness come over him.
‘So you’re sure they left here at half past ten.’
The waiter stopped, a fork in his hand.
‘Absolutely sure, Inspector. But has something happened to these gentlemen? Some misfortune?’
A fat woman with a thick fringe of blonde hair over her forehead came out of a door. She had to be the restaurant’s owner.
‘Gigi! Haven’t you finished yet?’ she said.
‘I’m almost done. These gentlemen are with the police.’
After a moment of confusion, the woman gave a forced, lipstick-painted smile.
‘Can I get you anything?’
‘No, thank you. We’ll be on our way in a minute.’ The owner raised a hand to say they should wait, then went and stuck her head inside the kitchen door.
‘Gisella, bring two vermouths, quick,’ she ordered.
‘Please don’t bother, we were on our way out,’ said Bordelli, irritated by her false smile.
‘Oh, no bother at all, just a little glass … So, has something happened?’
‘We just wanted to ask Signor Gigi a few questions, which we’ve already done.’
The woman seemed relieved. She folded her hands and let out a little giggle. Gisella arrived with glasses in hand, and the owner sternly ordered her back to the kitchen to fetch a tray.
‘These young girls are a disaster,’ she said.
‘There wasn’t any problem,’ said Piras, giving her a dirty look. Gisella returned, red in the face, eyes lowered under a thick black fringe. She held the tray out for the policemen. Bordelli would have liked to decline; at that moment his stomach really wasn’t ready for vermouth, but he felt sorry for the girl and so took the less full glass. Piras grabbed his and smiled broadly at Gisella, who practically ran away. Bordelli wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible and downed the glass in one gulp. A flash of heartburn immediately rose up his oesophagus and into his throat. The Sardinian emptied his glass and couldn’t restrain a grimace. The owner kept smiling, her face shiny with sweat.
‘Another little drop?’
‘We really must go, thank you.’
The inspector grabbed Piras by the elbow and led him towards the exit. Once outside, Bordelli put a hand on his stomach.
‘Pure poison.’
‘Do you mean the woman or the wine?’
‘Both, Piras, both.’
They parked the Beetle under a great palm along the seafront. Piras stayed in the car to eat a panino. Bordelli had already crossed the street and was knocking on a locked door under a green sign that said: La Mecca — Dancing. Nobody answered. The inspector turned to face Piras and threw his hands up, then crossed the avenue again and got back in the car. He bit into the panino he had left half eaten and said something with his mouth full, which Piras didn’t understand.
‘What did you say, Inspector?’
Bordelli swallowed.
‘I said it looks like we’re going to have to hang around here till this evening,’ he said. Piras looked back towards the Mecca.
‘Maybe not,’ he said, gesturing towards the nightclub door. A dishevelled blonde head had popped out of the now half-open door. The girl looked around, yawning, then came out into the sunlight and stretched. She looked very young, and pretty too. She was wearing a bathrobe too big for her. Bordelli quickly rewrapped his panino in its paper and raced back across the avenue. He reached the girl just before she could close the door behind her.
‘Excuse me, miss, I’m Inspector Bordelli, police. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions.’ The girl looked at him askance, a soft wrinkle appearing on her broad, smooth brow. She still had one hand on the door, as if waiting to decide what to do. Bordelli looked down and saw her bare little feet, slender and tanned, the toenails painted bright red. He thought: she really is pretty.
‘Do you work here?’ he asked.
‘Why do you ask?’ She had a northern accent, proud, intelligent eyes, and a stubborn air that made her seem even prettier. She shifted one foot forward and curled the toes, leg slightly bent at the knee, which jutted forward out of the bathrobe. Bordelli smiled.
‘Want to tell me your name?’
‘Elvira.’
‘Do you work here?’
The girl shrugged.
‘I’m a waitress, but only in summer. The rest of the year I’m a student.’
‘Were you here last Thursday evening?’
‘I’m here every day. But why are you asking me all these questions?’
‘Do you happen to know two brothers by the name of Morozzi?’
Elvira shook her head, a blonde lock falling over her face.
‘I don’t know anyone,’ she said. Bordelli didn’t know what else to say, but was unable to leave. With every second that passed, Elvira looked more and more beautiful to him. She radiated something magical that fascinated him. It had been a very long time since he had last felt such things. Then he realised she could be his daughter and scratched his head in embarrassment. The girl rearranged her hair and burst out laughing.
‘What’s wrong, Mr Policeman? Have you lost your voice?’
‘No, it’s that …’
‘You can’t keep me all day at the door like this. If you want to know more, come inside. I need some coffee.’
‘Of course.’
Bordelli turned towards Piras and gestured for him to wait. He crossed the threshold and found himself in an entrance hall full of pitiless mirrors. Seeing himself next to the beautiful young girl, he felt even older than he already was. He followed Elvira into a very big, dark room illuminated only by a red light hanging from the ceiling. In the middle of the room was a circular dance floor surrounded by the dark shapes of empty sofas. The girl walked across the room, her bare feet making a slapping sound. She parted a heavy velvet curtain, holding it open for Bordelli to pass through, then headed down a narrow corridor that led to a small, disorderly room, half bedroom, half kitchen, with an unmade bed and a small gas cooker in the corner. The blue-tiled floor was covered with a light veil of sand. High up on the wall was a half-open window that gave on to the sea, beaming with sunlight. A chair was completely buried under a layer of clothes, and atop the pile was a pair of white knickers. Seeing them, the girl grabbed them and stuffed them into her pocket.
‘Please sit wherever you like,’ she said.
The only thing available was an old wooden chair. Bordelli flopped down into it and felt the legs sway. A shaft of light speckled with floating dust filtered down through a crack in the ceiling. Turning her back to the inspector, Elvira busied herself making the coffee.
‘Will you have some too?’ she asked.
‘Yes, thank you.’ Bordelli gazed admiringly at the girl’s legs and sinewy feet, not looking away until she turned round.
‘I’m all yours, Mr Policeman. What would you like to know?’
‘Just a bit of information,’ said Bordelli. Elvira put the coffee pot on the burner and went and sat down on the bed. She raised her knees to rest her arms on them, causing the bathrobe to slip down and uncover her legs.
‘What are you doing, looking up my dress?’ said the girl, without covering her legs.
‘No … forgive me. You’re very pretty, Elvira.’
‘Forget the compliments, Inspector. They make me sick. That’s all I’ve ever heard my whole life.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Bordelli, who in his mind was thinking: Old fool, get out of here as soon as you can!
The girl started picking at an old scab on her ankle until it finally came off. Bordelli was sweating. He didn’t know where to look. He felt happy when he heard the coffee start to bubble up in the pot. Elvira stood up, rearranging her hair, went to get tw
o espresso cups in the sink, and rinsed these off, wiping the inside with her fingers. A blonde lock of hair fell on to her face and she blew it away.
‘How many sugars?’ she said.
‘One, please.’
‘So you really don’t want to tell me what you’re looking for?’ she said as she handed him the coffee. The handle on the little cup was broken, and Bordelli burnt his fingers. Still, it was easier than drinking out of one of Dante’s cups.
Elvira remained standing in front of him, bathrobe hanging loose, and looked at him. Her eyes were big, green and full of irony.
‘I’m investigating a murder,’ said Bordelli, blowing on the hot coffee in embarrassment. He felt awkward and silly, and wished he had never come inside. Elvira tightened the bathrobe round her body.
‘And who was killed?’ she said, without emotion.
‘A very rich lady.’
‘Then it wasn’t my mother,’ she said, shrugging her shoulders. With a grim smile she went and sat back down on the bed, espresso cup in hand, and folded her legs like a fakir. Bordelli set his scalding cup down on the floor and pulled out his cigarettes. He offered the girl one, and she gestured for him to throw it to her. He got up anyway and handed her the pack, then lit a match and leaned over her so she could light hers. Mingled with the odour of burning sulphur he clearly smelled the scent of her blonde hair and tanning lotions and felt as lonely as a dog. She inhaled and smiled, revealing a mouth of perfect little teeth.
‘Your hands are shaking, Mr Policeman.’
Bordelli hid his hands and stepped back.
‘Watch out for the coffee,’ Elvira said, pointing at the floor. Bordelli missed the little cup by a hair, staggered for a moment, and then leaned against the wall to keep from falling. This was the height of embarrassment. He really didn’t understand what was happening to him. This girl made him feel uneasy as nobody had ever done before. He picked the cup up off the floor, emptied it in a hurry and went and set it down in the sink. He would have liked to light his cigarette, but he felt too ashamed of his trembling hands, and so he left it in his mouth, unlit. He didn’t understand why he had ever agreed to come inside. It made no sense. And now he felt he couldn’t leave. He stood stiffly in the middle of the room, lacking the courage to sit down. He didn’t know what to say, and his silence weighed heavily on him. He had never felt so humiliated in all his life. And yet he was a police inspector aged fifty-three, and Elvira not much more than a little girl. She watched him, a knowing smile on her lips, then set down her cup and collapsed on the bed, lying back in complete innocence. She extended her legs, crossed her ankles, and then took a lock of hair between her fingers and started looking for split ends.
‘And what’s the Mecca got to do with this dead lady?’
‘What’s that?… Ah, yes, of course … it’s still a bit early to say. I just need to verify a few things.’
Bordelli described the Morozzi brothers to Elvira in great detail, pleased to have at last something specific to say to her. This calmed him down a little. The girl held out her hand, her finished cigarette between her fingers.
‘Would you put that out for me, please?’ Bordelli took the butt from her fingers and looked around for an ashtray.
‘Just throw it in the sink,’ she said. She turned on to her side, propped herself up on one elbow, and rested her cheek in her open hand.
‘Yeah, I remember them. They were really revolting. And there were two women with them who looked like whores.’
Bordelli took advantage of the moment to look her straight in the eye.
‘What do you mean, revolting?’
‘They’d drunk a lot and were trying to be cute. One of them even put his hand on my bottom. Disgusting! And the two geese did nothing but laugh!’
‘Can you tell me what time they arrived and what time they left?’
‘They didn’t leave till closing time. I remember it well, because they were stinking drunk and could barely stand up. But don’t ask me what time they arrived, because you have no idea how chaotic this place gets.’
Bordelli thought again just how beautiful Elvira was. Subtle and wild at the same time.
‘Is there anyone who might remember what time they arrived?’ he asked.
‘I really don’t think so. As I said, it’s too chaotic here. By nine o’clock this place is a zoo.’
‘I see.’
Elvira extended her arms and stretched for a long time, closing her eyes and arching her back with obvious pleasure. Then she sat up and put her feet on the floor.
‘Are we finished? Because, if you don’t mind, I’ve got some things to do,’ she said. Bordelli felt a pang in his chest. Only now did he realise he’d been hoping she liked him, at least a little, and that she’d be sad to see him go. Stupid old codger, he thought.
‘Yes, we’re done,’ he said, trying to smile.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked, surprised by his grimace.
‘It’s my ulcer …’ he lied.
‘I’ll show you out.’
Elvira got up from the bed and stopped for a moment to look at herself in a make-up mirror hanging from a nail. She made an expression as if to say: You are so ugly. Then she turned to Bordelli.
‘Shall we go?’
They headed towards the exit. Bordelli remained one step behind her, to watch her walk. Her blonde hair left a sun-scented wake in the air. Hold your nose, old moron, he said to himself. When they were at the door, she held out a warm little hand.
‘Well, goodbye,’ she said.
‘Thank you, Elvira. See you again some time.’
She smiled.
‘I really don’t think we’ll ever see each other again,’ she said. ‘Goodbye, policeman.’ She closed the door and Bordelli found himself singing a song by Celentano. He crossed the avenue slowly. The pavements were full of mothers and prams. Back in the Beetle, Bordelli found Piras bare-chested and asleep. Hearing the car door open, the Sardinian jolted awake, sat straight up, and started putting his shirt back on.
‘So, Inspector, how did it go?’
‘How did what go?’
* * *
Bordelli breathed in very deeply through his nose, and the smell of the sea brought him violently back to a very distant past. In his mind he saw again, as in some mythic remoteness, the house at Marina di Massa where his Mantuan aunts, rich old maids, used to spend their holidays, an art nouveauish little villa of grey stone, nobly spotted here and there with dry, greeny moss. It looked like a miniature castle ensconced in a magic garden, shady and private, full of very tall, slender pines and big dark plants. Resting on the brown, fertile ground was a broad basin full of slimy water with goldfish in it. A table of travertine stone glowed almost white under an arbour of passionflower, site of grown-up conversations. He saw again the great marble staircase, the tea-room with its lead-lined windows, the cast-iron spiral staircase that ascended mysteriously towards the ceiling and up to a room he was not allowed to enter. He was, however, allowed to eat chocolates, which were always old and stale, and the maid’s own home-made biscuits. And he was allowed to play with the cat, but not to hurt it. After lunch there was the usual nightmare: he had to take his nap. This was a terrible sacrifice for him: outside the sun was beating down, hundreds of lizards were waiting for nothing more than to be chased, while he was forced to lie in bed between Mamma and Papa, doing nothing. All he could do was think or follow the blurry, colourful shadows of passers-by on the ceiling, cast by the sun through the slats of the closed shutters. But as soon as Papa began to snore, he would get out of bed. Mamma was his accomplice and would gesture to him to be quiet, and he would go downstairs. The house was all his: silent, in semi-darkness from the partially closed blinds, and full of shadows. He used to slither across the floors on his belly, sliding under the furniture to escape the monsters who wanted to eat his feet. Round about four o’clock he would hear his mother’s footsteps upstairs, as she went into the bathroom. A bit disappointed and a bit glad, h
e would come out from under the sideboard and go and sit on the big red couch, already at the beach in his mind … Sea, sun, playing in the sand, diving, hearing Mamma call from afar: ‘That’s enough now, come out of the water.’ Then, after the last swim, a warm focaccia, taking big bites while shivering under his bathing-wrap. The sun, big and red, sinking into the sea before his eyes, an infinity of unfinished thoughts cluttering his head, turning him pensive, serious. The aunties used to say under their breath that ‘the little one’ was a melancholy child, and so they smiled and coddled him more than was necessary, and gave him presents. Poor aunties. They had died quite a while ago. He saw them again, seated one beside the other on the beach, dressed as if in a sitting room, with gold brooches and necklaces. They would look out at the sea, making useless comments or discussing projects for their vast farm in Argelato. Zia Cecilia, with her tiny head and a face like a night-bird; Zia Vittorina, with a black hairnet over her head and a walking stick with a silver knob at one end; Zia Ilda, white and transparent as a ghost, with her big, untroubled eyes, deep-set in her skull; and lastly, Zia Costanza, tiny and round, with her always cheerful face and gravelly voice. She gave off a sickly-sweet smell and loved to kiss everyone. A future friend of Il Duce and a famous medium, often chosen by the spirits of the long dead to be their voice for a few minutes among the living. Images of a vague, time-worn past, made all the more remote by the profound differences between those times and now, as distant from each other as a horse-drawn carriage and a Lancia Flaminia …
Under the spell of these thoughts, Bordelli had stopped eating his ice cream, which was now melting and dripping down the sides of the cup. A baby’s scream woke him up, and he found himself sitting in a cafe mobbed with people in bathing suits. Piras was looking at him, a curious expression on his face.
‘Inspector, can you hear me?’
‘Sorry, Piras, I was distracted.’
‘I said it’s already two o’clock.’
Bordelli ran his hands over his face to wipe away the memories. He pushed away the cup of ice cream and lit a cigarette.
‘Well, Piras, it seems the Morozzi brothers told the truth. What do you think? Shall we go look for these Salvettis anyway?’
