Death in August

by Marco Vichi

  ‘Who’s the guy in the doctor’s smock?’

  ‘That must be Dante. He’s an inventor and mouse-tamer.’

  ‘Mouse-tamer?’

  ‘He calls them each by name. You ought to see it.’

  Dante’s voice, soaring in a baritone solo, boomed from the dining room. Botta lost interest in the mice and gestured impatiently to Bordelli.

  ‘Now please go into the dining room, Inspector. The antipasti are on their way.’

  ‘I can’t wait.’

  Going in, Bordelli saw Dante waving an empty glass in the air. He was wearing his usual work-smock with its usual stains. His white, unruly air shone in the light of the chandelier.

  ‘… anyone who can grasp the world as a whole can see intolerable realities unworthy of even the simplest animal communities … Don’t you agree, Inspector?’

  ‘I do.’

  Bordelli excused himself for arriving late, blaming some pressing matters that could not be put off. The guests all rose to shake his hand, with the exception of Diotivede, who greeted him with a nod. The inspector hurriedly made his way to the table.

  ‘No, no, don’t get up. Hello, Piras. Please remain seated, everyone. How’s it going, Dr Fabiani?’

  An emotional Canapini came up to him and pulled him into a corner.

  ‘Thank you, Inspector, thank you … I … I …’

  Bordelli put his arms round the thief’s neck and shook him affectionately.

  ‘That’s enough of that, Canapini … And Rosa’s flowers?’

  Canapini sniffled and gave the saddest of smiles.

  ‘Fine, Inspector, just fine.’

  ‘Good. Now let’s see what we can do about stuffing ourselves.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector, thank you.’

  They went and sat down, as Dante resumed his argument.

  ‘If you think about it, the vast majority of humanity has always worked for the benefit of a few — a gigantic mechanism creaking and churning for the amusement of a few thousand people. Something’s not right. Think of a train, for example. One single engine transports thousands of people. Now reverse the mechanism: a train with a thousand engines transporting one man. Sheer folly. So one must ask oneself: how can this continue without the slightest sign of ever ending? I have never found a satisfactory answer.’

  Canapini was looking at Dante with the expression of someone who doesn’t quite understand the concepts but instinctively grasps the meaning of things. Dante was about to continue, but then Botta came in with two trays straight out of the Arabian Nights. He set them down at the centre of the table.

  ‘Welcome to Istanbul. I can’t remember the Turkish name of this dish, but I’ll tell you later what’s in it.’ On one tray were seven dark little domes that looked as hard as cement, adorned with lettuce leaves. On the other was a quivering snow-white timbale speckled with tiny red dots and surrounded by thin slices of raw carrot. Ennio started serving.

  ‘Naturally the ingredients are not quite the same, since you can’t get them here, but the effect is the same. Be sure to pour yourselves some wine, because it’s spicy.’

  The dark domes turned out to be creamy, velvety, incredibly delicious and scorching with hot pepper. The timbale had a strong taste of cheese and onion and was equally piquant. The first three bottles of red were quickly dispatched. Ennio declared that Chianti was a good match for Turkish cuisine.

  ‘It almost seems made for it,’ he said with an amicable jab of the elbow at Canapini, whose sadness seemed to be slowly lifting. Dante proposed a toast to the chef, and glasses tinkled merrily. Botta blushed from the praise, raising his own glass, then removed the small plates and dashed into the kitchen to fetch the first course.

  He returned with a great big pot.

  ‘This has nothing to do with Turkey, but was requested by Dr Diotivede. Zuppa lombarda.’

  The doctor shrugged and threw up his hands, excusing himself for the digression. Botta passed around a basket full of toasted bread and then served the soup, giving precise instructions as to the olive oil and Parmesan cheese to be added. Piras rather hesitantly sampled the transparent broth with little yellow beans floating in it, but then continued with enthusiasm after the first spoonful. Diotivede declared it perfect.

  They all took second helpings, even Canapini, who held his tablespoon as if it were a screwdriver. Diotivede served himself another ladleful, then a third, slowing down the rhythm of the meal.

  ‘Sorry, but I’ve been wanting this for years,’ he said.

  The second course took them back to Turkey: spicy beef stew. They had no trouble emptying another four bottles. After a while, all that remained in the pot was the ring left behind by the boiled liquid. Then it was time for pudding, also Turkish, for which Botta uncorked three bottles of sweet raisin wine from Pantelleria.

  ‘Pantelleria is more or less at the same latitude as Turkey, isn’t it?’ he said, gesturing horizontally with his hand. He filled their cups with an amber-coloured cream, sweet and fragrant, smelling of roses. It melted in one’s mouth like gelatin, and had a thousand flavours. Nobody had ever tasted anything like it, and naturally it was all gone in a matter of minutes. The inspector proposed another toast to Botta. Then he turned towards Piras.

  ‘Did you remember to bring those Sardinian biscuits?’

  ‘Of course, Inspector. They’re in the kitchen.’ He stood up to get them, but Botta pushed him back down into his chair.

  ‘I’ll go,’ he said. He returned with a paper bag that he emptied on to the table. After twenty years, Bordelli finally saw with his own two eyes what Gavino Piras had described a thousand times: little rhomboid biscuits covered with coloured sprinkles. Nobody present was familiar with them except, of course, for Ennio, who even knew how to make them.

  ‘I learned how at Asinara. Mine are as good as any Sardinian’s,’ he said. And so, after their journey to Turkey, they all found themselves in Sardinia. The dinner party was getting louder and louder. When they’d finished the raisin wine, out came the grappa, three bottles of it: one white, another flavoured with rue, a third with juniper, all rigorously without labels. Bordelli pointed this out, smiling.

  ‘That stuff’s all illegal, Ennio. Where the hell did you get it?’

  ‘From Bolla, Inspector. He sends you his regards.’

  Bordelli poured himself a glass of the juniper grappa. Then the coffee arrived, and the smokers got down to business. Fabiani and Diotivede, who didn’t smoke, kept refilling their glasses. Piras, hating smoke, pushed his chair back a bit, remaining nevertheless unruffled by the fools breathing smoke instead of air. Dante, who was seated beside him, lit a cigar as fat as a sausage, blowing great puffs of dense, acrid smoke between yellow teeth. Bordelli saw Piras’s distress and got up and opened the other window. A gust of hot air immediately blew in, and the fog of smoke began to dissipate.

  Dante began to talk about Rebecca’s funeral, and all fell silent, including Fabiani, Canapini and Botta, who knew nothing about her death …

  The basilica of Santa Croce felt bigger than ever, as it was almost empty. It was August, after all, everyone was on holiday, and hardly anyone knew that Rebecca had died. The Morozzi brothers and their wives stood motionless in front of the coffin, dressed in mourning, tiny under the gaze of Christ and the saints. Signora Maria was whimpering in a corner, nearly hidden behind the funerary monument of some illustrious poet; every so often she let out a sob that echoed throughout the church. Sitting in a central pew were three of Rebecca’s lady friends. Dante knew them and greeted them from afar with a nod. All three were widows. They returned his greeting and whispered intensely among themselves, shaking their heads. There were some six or seven unknown old ladies scattered about, kneeling with hands folded, their jawbones trembling with prayer and Parkinson’s. They weren’t there for Rebecca, but for the mass. In the last pew was a man of about sixty, tall and rather good looking, whom Dante didn’t know. Despite the heat, he wore a jacket and tie. He stared at the casket
from a distance, sweating and weeping. He left just before the Ite Missa Est, hastily crossing himself and walking out.

  ‘I am sure that handsome gentleman was my sister’s lover,’ said Dante. ‘He looks like a professor, no?’

  The priest was a fat, likeable little man who spoke with the accent of the Romagna. During the homily he launched into a fine speech on the serenity of the immortal soul and the resurrection of the flesh, and at that point Dante interrupted him, approaching the altar, voice booming in the empty church. The priest gave him a dirty look.

  ‘Mo ben! This is hardly the moment, you foolish lug!’ he shouted.

  Dante apologised, yelling that he was distracted and that such things happened. Lost in his thoughts about immortality, he had very nearly lit a cigar on the spot.

  After the service, the bier was transported to the cemetery and inserted in the appointed vault in the family chapel, a nineteenth-century Gothic Revival structure covered with curlicues. The stonemasons were ready with their bricks and cement already mixed. It took them scarcely ten minutes to finish their task. The Morozzi brothers stood stonily in front of the chapel, looking disoriented. Signora Maria glared at them with disgust. When the ceremony was over, Dante energetically shook the hand of each of the brothers, which as usual felt spongy and sweaty, and slippery as fish. Behind their oversized black sunglasses, their wives looked saddened, heads down and muttering.

  ‘Poor thing.’

  ‘What a shame!’

  ‘Poor Auntie, to die so young.’

  Hearing these comments, Dante burst out laughing, his mind on the will. At last he lit his cigar. After kissing Signora Maria one last time, he went home, collapsed in an armchair and, with his first sip of grappa, burst into tears.

  ‘But that’s not very interesting,’ Dante said to the dinner guests. ‘Would you like to hear about the will?’

  They all said yes. More grappa and cigarettes made the rounds. Dante clutched his cigar with his teeth, to free up his hands. He liked to draw in the air the things he described.

  ‘All right. Imagine a beautiful room with wooden bookcases up to the ceiling, full of thick tomes with gold-inlaid spines: Plutarch, Herodotus, Roman law, The Guild of Notaries, the History of Italy, a Bible, and then some large oriental vases, a clock under a bell-jar, some bronze statues — a female nude, an Indian on horseback … Hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room, a large, unlit chandelier with crystal pendants, a very fine Persian carpet on the floor, and an enormous desk, perfectly uncluttered … All this in penumbra, since the shutters are closed outside a row of three tall windows. The secretary shows us in, has us sit in the five chairs already lined up for us, and with a cold smile, she says: “Mr Balatri will be with you in a moment. He apologises for the lack of light, but he’s just had an operation on his eyes.” Then she leaves, heels clattering on the floor. We waited a good ten minutes without saying a word. I felt like laughing, but managed to restrain myself. Then the lawyer comes in, a tiny, quiet man who looked like he was in pain, wearing tinted glasses because of the operation. He sits down, looking us straight in the eye, and says, “My condolences.” He had a funny voice, all nose, but maybe it was just me who thought it was funny, since I knew what the upshot of the whole business would be.’

  Dante savoured his story between mouthfuls of smoke.

  ‘The lawyer then opened a drawer and pulled out an envelope, which he opened with a paper knife, extracting a sheet of paper. Glancing again at all of us, to see if we were ready, he began to read: “I, the undersigned, Rebecca Pedretti-Strassen, being of sound mind, declare that upon my death, the following shall be done according to my wishes: I bequeath all my possessions, including the villa and paintings-” and here the lawyer paused, coughed into his hand and cleared his throat, as the nephews leaned forward in their chairs “to the convent of the Sisters of Monte Frassineto, with the sole exception of…” At this point confusion broke out: some started scraping their shoes against the floor, Giulio bit into his fingernails, drawing blood, and the lawyer politely asked for silence, so he could go on. He resumed: “… with the sole exception of a small painting of a purple sky, which I leave to my brother Dante, with my best wishes for a long and happy life; a sum in the amount of three million lire, to be given to Signora Maria Dolci, with my sincerest affections; and four photographs, attached hereto, which I leave with all my heart to my beloved nephews, Anselmo and Giulio Morozzi, and their lovely wives, that they may keep the memory of their dear Aunt Rebecca forever alive … Here are the pictures.” All four reached out to take them. It was a beautiful shot of my sister standing in front of the villa. Four copies, one for each, so they wouldn’t quarrel over it.’

  Dante chortled and applied a match to his cigar until it caught flame. Then he knocked back a slug of grappa and took three deep puffs, filling the air with a great smelly cloud of smoke.

  ‘There was pandemonium. My nephews were nearly in tears, the wives started shouting and pounding the desktop. Gina stood up without a word, took one step, and collapsed on the carpet. The lawyer was shocked, his hands were trembling. He summoned his secretary and told her to call an ambulance, but then Gina suddenly woke up and started punching her husband, who had come to her aid. “Stop, darling, don’t hit me like that,” he said. And so the lawyer dismissed the secretary with a gesture and then threw up his hands. “Please give me your attention for a moment. There is also a codicil to the will … Feel a little better now, signora? Come, think you can get up now?” But Gina only burst into tears and lay down flat on the carpet like a spoilt little girl, kicking her shoes off. Angela was biting her finger and moaning. The lawyer ignored them and turned back to his document; it was clear he couldn’t wait for it all to be over. He raised his voice a little, so they could hear him over the whimpering, and read: “Codicil. Dear Anselmo and Giulio, dear Gina and Angela, I anxiously await you …” Ladies and gentlemen, please! One more minute of your attention … “Dear Dante, please be good to Gideon, I entrust him to your care as if he were my child, since I have none …” And so on and so forth. There followed some instructions as to the care of Gideon and a fond goodbye to yours truly, full of praise … private stuff, in short.’

  Dante then lowered his eyes, perhaps thinking of that fond goodbye, and remained that way until Bordelli asked him who Gideon was. Dante roused himself and pulled on his cigar, but it had gone out again.

  ‘Who’s Gideon? He’s the cat.’

  ‘Then I’ve seen him. He’s a beautiful cat, big and white,’ said Bordelli. Dante threw up his hands.

  ‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never seen him.’

  Botta chimed in that he really liked that sort of name for a cat. Then he squirmed a bit and said that he, too, had a story to tell. As nobody objected, he sat up straight in his chair.

  ‘I’d like to say something about the Germans. It’s true they did a lot of horrible things, but something happened to me which … well, it made me change my mind a little. Not that I think well of the Nazis or anything, but Nazis are one thing, and people are another, if you know what I mean. Maybe it’s better if I get straight to the story and cut short the preamble.’ He took a quick sip and went on.

  ‘In ’45 I was taken prisoner by the Germans, up in the north, along with a lot of other Italians. There were about sixty of us. They had us digging ditches and chopping wood and treated us like slaves. They gave us hardly anything to eat, and if anybody complained he got a thrashing or worse. One day the Americans bombed us, and it was like the end of the world. One bomb smashed open the wall of the room where we were imprisoned, and after hesitating for a moment, we all started running away like rabbits, every man for himself and God with us all, the bullets flying over our heads. I ran until my legs gave out, breathing hard as if the air itself was freedom. I ended up at the end of some footpath and was already feeling I’d made it, when out of the bushes comes this Nazi with a machine gun. He was as big as an ox, about six foot six, shoulders as broad as
a barn, really scary. He wasn’t wearing a helmet, and short blond stubble glistened on his bare head. After my run I’d practically landed on top of him, and now I was out of breath. I looked up at his big ruddy face, convinced my life was about to end. Now he’s gonna cut me in two with machine-gun fire, I thought to myself. Instead he gives me this German sort of smile and says: “Goin’ home to Mamma, eh?” I couldn’t manage to speak, and so I nodded “yes”, and he stepped aside and let me go. I didn’t wait to be asked twice. I was off like a shot, and as I was running I turned round to see what the German was doing. And there he was, waving goodbye like a friend, still smiling. The whole thing made a deep impression on me, because if that German had acted like a German, I wouldn’t be here today … Then … then a few months later, another thing happened to me …’

  Bordelli interrupted him with a smile, took his time lighting a cigarette, then pushed his glass over to Diotivede for a refill.

  ‘My dear Botta, that’s a beautiful story you just told us, very moving, but for every story you tell there’s a thousand more, all different, and I’d like to tell one right now, really briefly, as long as everyone’s in agreement.’ He turned to look at the others and saw that there was no objection. ‘All right, then, this is the story of something that happened to a friend that I met back up with right after the war, Senior Grade Lieutenant Binismaghi, and since he told it to me himself, you might think it’s a happy story, but that’s not really the case. When his ship was taken by the German navy, the prisoners were taken to an Italian port under German occupation and treated with the proper respect due to them under the Geneva Convention. They had comfortable cells and plenty of food, all according to regulations. Until the day, several weeks later, when the SS intervened by order of Berlin. They took all the ship’s officers aside for interrogation. Lieutenant Binismaghi was led into one of the conference rooms of the town hall, which had been turned into the office of a German non-commissioned officer. And a fine office it was, bright and clean and equipped with a photo of the Fuhrer and the Nazi flag. Behind his thin, round spectacles, the young German had a pair of blue eyes straight out of a fairy tale of Prince Charming, and he cut a rather dashing figure. He couldn’t have been more than twenty years old, whereas my friend was nearly twice his age and felt a bit put out to have this young blond whippersnapper asking him questions. But these things happen in war. Naturally, he didn’t answer any of the questions, but only gave his name, surname and serial number and declared his loyalty to the king of Italy. The Nazi didn’t bat an eyelid and actually seemed quite unruffled. He changed the subject and started making small talk in rather good Italian. He asked Binismaghi where he was from, what his city was like, what the traditional dishes were, what the women of his region were like, and so on. And he listened very attentively, showing sympathy for this Italian officer loyal to his king. He even said some amusing things, and the two men laughed together. In the end he thanked Binismaghi for the pleasant conversation and stood up to shake his hand. He smiled, his pale blue eyes staring at Binismaghi from behind his eyeglasses. Binismaghi also smiled and turned away to leave. But he didn’t make it to the door, because Prince Charming shot him in the nape of the neck from barely six feet away. My friend woke up a few hours later under the dead bodies of his comrades. The bullet had entered at the base of the skull and come out of his mouth without touching his brain. The Germans had taken him for dead and tossed him into a large pit with the rest. Since no one paid any attention to the dead, he was able to escape … As you see, Botta, this story also has a happy ending, but it was only due to good luck, not to any good deed by a Nazi.’