The telephone rang. Bordelli took a few moments to emerge from his dream, then reached out in the darkness and picked up the receiver.
‘Yeah …’
‘Inspector, it’s me. Did I wake you up?’
‘Piras … what’s happening?’ Bordelli asked, pressing his eyes with his fingers.
‘I’m sorry, but I had something to tell you.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Eight o’clock, Inspector.’
‘So what is it?’ said Bordelli, yawning. It wasn’t really so early, but he’d slept poorly and felt tired. Piras, on the other hand, was wide awake and talking too fast for the inspector’s foggy head.
‘That person I know who shot himself … I went back to his house, because I suddenly remembered to check for the shell …’
‘The shell …’ Bordelli muttered, trying hard to grasp the concept.
‘I searched the room from top to bottom, Inspector, but there was no shell.’
‘That’s not possible,’ said Bordelli, finally awake.
‘I searched Benigno’s clothes, and I even asked the carabinieri who wrote up the report. No shell. It’s vanished. I thought about it all night, Inspector, and I could think of only one possible explanation …’
‘Murder?’ Bordelli interrupted him, sitting up.
‘Find me another and I’ll change my mind,’ the Sardinian said. Bordelli turned on the light and put his feet on the floor.
‘I won’t say you’re wrong, Piras.’
‘Bullet shells don’t just fly away, Inspector.’
‘What do you plan to do?’
‘What would you do?’ asked Piras, breathing hard into the receiver.
‘If you’re really convinced of what you say—’
‘I’m convinced,’ Piras interrupted him.
‘Then carry on,’ said Bordelli, standing up.
‘For the moment I’d rather not say anything to the carabinieri, but I want you to agree,’ said Piras.
‘Do what you think best, Piras, you have my full support.’
‘I was very fond of Benigno, Inspector. And if someone killed him, I want to find them,’ said Piras.
‘Just be sure not to do anything stupid, and keep me informed.’
‘All right.’
‘Good luck, Piras.’
‘Thanks, sir.’ They said goodbye, and Bordelli dragged himself into the bathroom. He washed his face in cold water and then looked at himself in the mirror. Piras’s phone call was still echoing in his head. A pistol is fired and the shell can’t be found. It wasn’t normal, in any sense. If someone had actually shot this Benigno, hoping to make it look like a suicide … getting rid of the shell could not have been part of his plan. He brushed his teeth and spat the night’s bitterness into the plughole. Looking at himself again in the mirror, he saw something dark trickling from one nostril. He thought it was blood. He blew his nose and looked at the results. There were black spots on the handkerchief. But it wasn’t blood. The tar in his lungs was beginning to break up. Smoking less was starting to bear its first fruits … Even if they were disgusting to look at.
He went out and got into his car. A few clouds floated lazily across the sky, but the night’s rain was gone and the sun showed its face from time to time. Every time his thoughts turned to Odoardo, he heard a great big fly buzz in his head. Actually it was a bee in his bonnet, to be more precise. He had to go back soon and have another little chat with the lad. Let’s wait for Christmas to be over, he thought, and then I’ll go back. When he got to the office, he sent Mugnai to fetch him some coffee. He put an unlit cigarette down on the desk and looked at it from time to time. But he was able to resist. Around mid-morning there was a knock at the door. It was Mugnai again. He had in his hand a couple of letters for the inspector and a cardboard box with a slot on top.
‘What’s the box for, Mugnai?’
‘Signora Attilia’s Christmas bonus, Inspector. It’s your turn.’ Attilia was the woman who’d started cleaning the offices a few months before, following old Rosalia’s retirement. She came every morning by train from Vicchio. Bordelli pulled out a couple of thousand-lira notes and slipped them into the box.
‘What are you doing for Christmas, Mugnai?’
‘I’m working, that’s what.’
‘Well, that certainly must make you happy.’
‘Don’t get me started, Inspector.’
‘At least you know you won’t have to do it next year.’
‘I think I’ll go and celebrate right now,’ Mugnai said, walking away with his Chaplinesque waddle. Bordelli opened the first envelope. It was the complete report on Badalamenti’s post-mortem. As usual, Diotivede had typed it up himself on his Olivetti Lettera 22. And, as usual, the results were awful. Diotivede made a lot of mistakes, and to correct them, he merely typed over them ten times. The paragraph indentations never lined up, and the paper always had a few stains on it. The contents, however, were clear and precise. Diotivede had a great passion for his work, and he always inspected the bodies one millimetre at a time, inside and out.
The inspector read the report very carefully, and when he’d finished, he heaved a long sigh. It contained nothing new that might be of help, at least for the moment. He dropped the sheets of paper on to his desk. Almost without realising it, he picked up the cigarette and lit it. Still thinking about Odoardo, he became spellbound watching a fly walk on the handle of the paper-cutter. It was going round in circles, a bit like himself at that moment. Let’s wait for Christmas to be over, he repeated to himself, and then I’ll go back and talk to the boy …
When the fly flew away, he roused himself and opened the other envelope. It was the order for the seizure of Badalamenti’s possessions, signed by Ginzillo. Inside there was also Badalamenti’s gold key-chain, with the keys to the Porsche. He was about to call Mugnai to have him take care of it, but then changed his mind and decided to see to it himself. He’d never driven such an expensive car before.
He left the office and went to the police garage to pick up the Beetle. He’d left it there early that morning to have the oil and spark plugs checked. Entering the garage, he saw a raised bonnet in the distance, with the lower half of a human body hanging out of it. Sallustio, the police mechanic, was working on the motor of a black Maserati, Rabozzi’s patrol car. He seemed deeply engrossed. Bordelli stopped beside him.
‘Hello, handsome,’ he said. Sallustio looked up with a jolt and very nearly bashed his head against the bonnet.
‘Bloody hell, Inspector! You frightened me.’
‘I wonder if there’s really any difference between you and Diotivede.’ The mechanic emerged in full from the car’s bowels. He was short and broad, with the proud, sort of blustery face of one who knew he did his job well. He stretched his cramped back, keeping his oil-stained hands far from his oil-stained overalls.
‘I wouldn’t trade places with Diotivede even for a Ferrari, Inspector. We work hard here, but then we get to see the engine running again. It’s like we’ve brought it back to life. Diotivede, on the other hand …’ Bordelli was always amazed that a massive man like Sallustio could have such delicate hands.
‘But the passion for poking around inside someone’s or something’s guts seems the same to me,’ he said.
‘Ah, well, as for that, either you’ve got it or you haven’t,’ the mechanic said, laughing. The inspector bent over to have a look at the Maserati’s dismantled engine. He had trouble believing that all those greasy parts could come back together and make a car run.
‘Have you had a look at the Beetle?’
‘I changed the oil. The plugs should be all right for a while yet.’
‘Thanks.’ Bordelli took out a thousand-lira note and, ignoring Sallustio’s protests, put it in the pocket of his overalls.
‘Thank you, Inspector. The keys are in the glove compartment.’
‘What are you doing for Christmas, Sallustio?’
‘I’m going out to the country with my brothers to see our parents. They’ll be killing a goose for the holiday. All the uncles and aunts and cousins will be there too. Usually there’re more than fifty of us.’
‘All right, then, I’ll be on my way. Have a happy Christmas.’
‘A happy Christmas to you, too, Inspector.’ Around eleven o’clock, after his walk, Piras went and knocked at Pina’s door again. He wanted to tell her he needed to talk a little more about Benigno.
‘Why, did something happen that you didn’t tell me about?’ she asked, alarmed.
‘Nothing important, Pina. I would just like to understand why Benigno did what he did,’ Piras lied.
‘Come in,’ she said, not quite convinced. When they entered the kitchen, Piras smelled a strong aroma of cooked apples. Pina went and turned down the flame under a large aluminium pot, then lifted the lid and stirred the hot jam. Spread out on the table was some dough for making papassinos.
‘My mother’s making some, too,’ said Piras, just to say something ordinary. Pina didn’t reply. She took two ornate glasses from the cupboard and grabbed a bottle of Vernaccia that Giovanni had made himself.16
‘A little wine?’ she asked.
‘Just a drop, thanks. What are you doing for Christmas?’ asked Piras. He was anxious to ask her some questions, but pretending to be calm so as not to arouse her suspicions. Pina poured a little wine into both glasses, and they took a sip.
‘My sons are staying in Italy this year,’ said Pina.
‘I know, your husband told me.’
‘Only Giovanni’s cousin will be coming from Solarussa with his wife.’
‘Ah, good,’ said Piras.
‘What are your family doing?’
‘We’ve got some relatives coming over,’ said Piras. They sat for a few moments in silence. Pina seemed absent, as if forever in the grip of an obsession. Then she shook her head.
‘I always told Benigno, find yourself a wife, you can’t live your life always alone,’ she said.
‘How did he seem, the last time you saw him? Did he seem strange?’ Piras asked.
‘Don Giuliano always says that only God can take your life away, and it’s a mortal sin if you do it yourself,’ said Pina.
‘There are always exceptions …’
‘Nino wasn’t a bad man.’
‘I’m sorry, Pina, but do you remember if he was worried or upset about anything the last time you saw him?’ asked Piras, anxious to talk about Benigno.
‘He was the same as always,’ said Pina.
‘Do you know if anything bad had happened to him?’
‘He didn’t say anything to me.’
‘I dunno … Did he quarrel with anyone, or receive some bad news?’
‘He didn’t say anything.’
‘Do you know if he had any enemies, or if he was involved in some old feud or vendetta?’ Piras pressed her, hoping to find something to grab on to, even though that sort of murder had little of the style of traditional Sardinian feuds. Pina frowned at him.
‘What’s this got to do with vendettas? He wasn’t murdered!’
‘I was just … you know, asking … Sometimes, with those things, you never know what can happen,’ Piras lied with the straightest face imaginable.
‘I don’t know anything about any vendettas. I think he would have told me. When I last saw him, he was fine and didn’t seem to have any troubles. I really don’t understand why he went and did such a terrible thing,’ she said, staring at the table. Then she stood up and went over to the cooker, lifted the lid on the pot again and stirred a few more times, looking grim. The smell of apples was growing stronger and stronger. Piras stood up and, leaning on his crutches, went over to her.
‘Think hard, Pina. Had Benigno been doing anything … unusual lately?’ he asked.
‘He was doing what he always did. Tending his sheep, making cheese …’ Pina muttered, still stirring the hot jam.
‘Where did he sell his cheese?’ Piras asked.
‘He gave most of it to a man who sold it at the market at Oristano.’
‘Did Benigno bring it to him, or did the man come and get it himself ?’
‘Nino would bring it to him once a week.’
‘Did Benigno have any shepherds working for him, lending a hand? Or did he do everything alone?’
‘He did everything alone,’ said Pina.
‘And did he by any chance meet anyone new these past few weeks?’
‘I have no idea,’ she said, shrugging. Piras ran a hand over his head, increasingly discouraged.
‘What sort of things did he say to you the last time you saw him?’ he asked. Pina raised the ladle and let the jam drip slowly out. It was still too liquid. She put the lid back on the pot and turned round.
‘He talked about a lot of things,’ she said.
‘Try to tell me everything you can remember,’ said Piras, convinced he was getting nowhere. Pina thought it over for a moment.
‘He said he was tired of looking after all those sheep. He wanted to buy a vineyard and start making wine, like Giovanni.’
‘And?’
‘He’d decided he was going to fix the roof, because it rained inside the house … He also mentioned some land he wanted to sell,’ said Pina, seeming tired of all these meaningless questions.
‘What land?’ asked Piras.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did he want to sell it, or was he already in the process of selling it?’
‘I really don’t know, but I’m sure Giovanni does. He talked a lot more about these things with him.’
‘And where’s Giovanni now?’
‘He went out to chop some wood, up past the orange grove. He should be back pretty soon.’
‘I’ll go and look for him. That way I’ll get a little exercise,’ said Piras, heading for the door. Pina shuffled behind him with a weary step. She was taking Benigno’s death very badly, especially the fact that it had been a suicide.
‘Will you two be coming over to watch the film tonight?’ Piras asked at the door.
‘If we’re not too tired …’
‘A little distraction might do you good.’
‘I don’t know … Tell your mamma we’ll see her on Christmas Eve around midnight for the mass.’
‘All right.’
‘’Bye, Nino,’ she said, trying to smile.
‘Pina, if you need any help with the declaration of succession … don’t hesitate to ask.’ She was the sole heir of the deceased’s estate.
‘You can talk about it with Giovanni. He does everything,’ said Pina.
‘Goodbye, Pina.’ Piras nodded and went out. The Setzus’ wood was a little over half a mile outside town, towards Sulacheddu. It was all uphill, and it took Piras a good half-hour to get there. Without crutches it would have taken him less than half that long. A large, motionless cloud covered the sun, but all around it the sky was blue. When he turned down the path that led into the wood, he saw Giovanni coming towards him on a cart full of wood. He waited for him at the end of the path, leaning on his crutches.
‘Hey …’ Giovanni said as he drew near, and the donkey slowed down and came to a halt.
‘A lot of wood, eh?’ said Piras.
‘And it’s never enough!’ said Giovanni.
‘I’ve just been to see Pina. We talked a little about what happened.’
‘Lately that’s all she ever talks about …’
‘She told me Benigno wanted to sell some land in Oristano,’ said Piras, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to say. Giovanni looked at him, scratching his face with his fingernails.
‘That’s right. Why do you mention it?’
‘I dunno … I’m just trying to understand what sort of reason Benigno might have had … for doing what he did,’ said Piras. Giovanni spat from the cart and shook his head.
‘I kept telling him he should keep that land, that it was a gold mine, but he never listened to anybody,’ said Giovanni.
‘Was it suitable for building?’
‘Benigno used to tell me you could build two buildings as tall as the bell tower on it,’ he said, raising his hand to the sky.
‘Maybe he needed money to repair the roof.’
‘He should have kept it,’ said Giovanni, still shaking his head. The donkey was immobile, staring into infinity.
‘Now it’s all yours. You can do whatever you want with it,’ said Piras.
‘It’s all Pina’s. I’ve got nothing to do with it.’
‘Was there already someone interested in buying it?’
‘I don’t know. Benigno had put it all in the hands of some lawyer in Oristano.’
‘Do you know his name?’ Piras asked, taking a step forward. Giovanni rearranged the hat on his head and searched his memory. He seemed to be looking at the donkey’s ears.
‘Musillo,’ he said at last with confidence.
‘Musillo …’ Piras repeated softly.
‘He’s half Pugliese. Benigno trusted him.’
‘Can that donkey pull both of us?’
‘Climb aboard.’ Piras set his crutches down on the cart and sat at the end of the flatbed.
‘Are you going to need any help with the succession papers? Angelo works at the town hall and knows about that sort of thing,’ he said.
‘We can talk about it after Epiphany … Ho!’ said Giovanni, and the donkey resumed walking.
Around midday Bordelli turned down Via Stoppani, a private road with no exit, which started at the corner of Via Volta and went up the Camerata hill, where Fontana the barrister lived. At the corner of Via Barbacane, there was a niche with a painted Madonna, peeling in spots but still solemn, in the stone wall marking the boundary of the garden of a large house dressed up as a castle. Across the street was an immense, abandoned villa surrounded by a park overgrown with weeds. It no longer had any windows, and the black rectangles gave the house a lugubrious atmosphere even during the day. If someone had told him there were ghosts between those four walls he would have had no trouble believing it.
He drove slowly up the street. There were a few cars parked along the pavement, almost all of them fancy. Big Fiats, Lancias, even a black MG and an extremely long Jaguar. A pot of money on four wheels. He’d never been inside a car like that. Proceeding another hundred yards or so, he stopped at last in front of Fontana’s villa. He got out and peered through the gate. The villa was enormous, apparently deserted, and surrounded by high-trunked trees that towered above the roof. It must have been built in the late nineteenth century, though it didn’t look as unwieldy as some buildings from that period. The garden was well tended, the flower beds nicely hoed and raked, the grass mown. Earthenware jugs and vases were scattered tastefully about on the lawn and along the steps leading up to the villa. The street was completely silent, but when he pricked up his ears, he could hear a sort of indecipherable refrain. It seemed in fact to be coming from Fontana the barrister’s villa. A bit farther on, there was another, larger gate for cars. Bordelli looked in through the bars. Beside the house was a paved lane that led to a garage with its broad door open. Visible inside were Guido Fontana’s BSA and a Solex.
He went back to the smaller gate. He pressed the doorbell and heard two chimes ring inside the house. He waited for at least a minute, but nobody came out. He rang again and, while waiting, put a cigarette between his lips. He looked around a little. Every so often he could hear a car drive past in Viale Volta, but it was only a distant, almost pleasant hiss. In springtime the place must be a cacophony of bumblebees and songbirds, he thought. The villas were only on one side of the street; the other was lined with an old stone wall a good ten feet high with bottle shards cemented on top. Beyond the wall one could see a small hill covered with centuries-old trees and tall, bare acacias. It was the wild part of the Parco del Ventaglio … The very place where a young girl of eight had been found strangled to death the year before. The inspector remembered the scene well. That day was the beginning of one of the worst nightmares of his career … Then he unfailingly remembered that he had also met, during the same period, a beautiful Jewish girl who had set him dreaming for a few weeks …
He rang the Fontanas’ bell again and waited a while longer. But no one came to the door. He was about to leave when he saw the curtain to a first-floor window move. For a brief second a head appeared behind the panes, and then the curtain closed again. A few seconds later the front door opened. A tall, slender young man came out. He was wearing a brown leather jacket and had a fringe of black hair over his eyes. An old German shepherd that looked rather gentle came out with him. The youth crossed the garden with the dog at his side and stopped in front of the gate. Through the still-open door to the house came some music that seemed to be rising up from underground.
‘Good morning,’ said the young man, suspicious. The dog stuck its muzzle between the bars and sniffed the stranger.
‘Inspector Bordelli, police,’ said Bordelli, flashing his badge.
‘I’m looking for Guido Fontana.’
‘That’s me,’ said Guido, hands in his pockets. He made no move to open the gate. He had a gaunt face and nervous, slightly bloodshot eyes.
‘Aren’t you going to let me in?’ asked the inspector.
‘I’m unarmed.’ Guido turned to the dog.
‘Go lie down, Poldo,’ he said. The dog went a few yards away and lay down on the ground. The youth opened the gate.
‘Are you looking for Raffaele?’ he asked, shaking Bordelli’s hand.
‘Is he here?’
‘Yes, he’s inside.’
‘First I’d like to have a few words with you,’ said Bordelli.
‘Now?’ said the youth, impatient. Bordelli nodded. The dog calmly got up and came forward to have a closer look at the inspector.
‘It seems Raffaele has already told you everything,’ said Bordelli.
‘He mentioned a couple of things,’ said Guido. The dog started sniffing the intruder’s clothes. The inspector patted the animal’s head, and Poldo began wagging his tail. He was a fine specimen, but a bit short compared to Blisk.
‘If I’ve understood correctly, you see each other often,’ Bordelli said.
‘Every day.’
‘Do you remember what the two of you did on the tenth of December? It was a Friday,’ said Bordelli, hand still stroking Poldo between the ears.
‘We spent most of the day indoors, because it was raining,’ said Guido.
‘Good memory,’ said Bordelli.
‘I remember it clearly because at one point we went into town to buy a record and got all wet,’ Guido said as if bored.
‘What was the record?’ Bordelli asked, like a meticulous police detective. Actually, however, he was merely curious to know what sort of music those two listened to. The youngster shrugged.
‘You wouldn’t know them.’
‘Aren’t you being a little prejudiced?
‘The Rolling Stones,’ Guido said curtly.
‘You’re right, I don’t know them.’
‘I told you,’ the lad said. He was the opposite of Raffaele. He acted as if speaking cost him a great deal of effort. The dog lay down and rested its muzzle on its forepaws, as if expecting a long, boring conversation.
‘At what time on that Friday did Raffaele come here?’
‘He always comes round about ten o’clock.’
‘In the morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘And on that day, too, he came at ten?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you were together the whole time … Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Aside from going and buying that record, what did you do?’
‘We played music, listened to music, talked, breathed … that sort of thing.’
‘I asked you a serious question,’ said Bordelli.
‘We were together the whole time. Isn’t that what you wanted to know?’
‘At what time did Raffaele leave?’
‘Late at night, as always.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Around two, half past two,’ said the youth, tired of all the questions.
‘And from ten in the morning till two at night, you were never apart?’
‘No, that’s what I just said.’
‘Not even for, say, an hour?’
‘No.’
‘Would you repeat these same things under oath in a court of law?’ the inspector asked, looking him hard in the eye.
‘Of course.’
‘I have to tell you something,’ said Bordelli.
‘What?’
‘I have the feeling that in about a minute your nose is going to start growing like Pinocchio’s … Do you know who Pinocchio is?’
‘I told you the truth.’
‘It’s very good of you to want to protect your friend, but it’s also a mistake.’
‘I’m not protecting anybody.’
‘So much the better. Could I talk to Raffaele?’ Bordelli asked with a cheerful smile.
‘He’s inside,’ said Guido.
‘Are you inviting me in?’
‘Do as you like.’
‘I wouldn’t want to trouble you.’
‘No trouble at all,’ said Guido. He closed the gate behind the inspector, and headed towards the villa with the dog beside him. Bordelli followed behind.
‘Is there anyone else in the house?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Don’t you have a cleaning woman?’
‘She’s out shopping.’
‘And what about your mother?’
‘My mother doesn’t live here.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘Milan.’
‘Are your parents separated?’17
‘Yes, but we’re not supposed to say so,’ said Guido, shrugging his shoulders, as if the matter didn’t concern him. They went into the house, followed by the dog, and Guido closed the great door behind them. The music was more audible inside. They climbed three more steps and found themselves in the entrance hall, a majestic space full of paintings and sculptures with a number of dark wooden doors opening on to it. There was also a staircase in pietra serena with a carved balustrade leading to the first floor. It was all very solemn and not very welcoming. It looked like something grandiose in miniature.
The inspector walked beside Guido down a broad corridor full of pictures and antique furniture, followed by the clicking sound of the dog’s claws on the marble floor. The slender, silent youth moved through all these things like a shadow, ignoring them. He had no connection to anything around him, like an outsider who had ended up there by chance.
The music was getting clearer and clearer. There was an electric guitar, endlessly repeating the same notes, and a voice yelling over it.
‘What is this music?’ Bordelli asked.
‘It’s the record I mentioned,’ said Guido.
‘What did you say it’s called?’
‘It’s by the Rolling Stones, a British rock group,’ Guido said with a sigh, as if he’d been forced to say that pigs have four feet.
‘And what does it mean?’
‘Well, you know the saying; “a rolling stone gathers no moss”. It’s like calling yourself “the Ne’er-do-Wells” or “the Hooligans”.’
‘Interesting,’ said Bordelli. The lad went through an open door and they entered a relatively small room with an entirely different atmosphere from the rest of the house. Raffaele wasn’t there. The walls were papered over with posters … Very young men with hair down to their chins and electric guitars in their hands. Scattered about on the bed was a bit of everything: clothes, books, dust covers of 45 rpm records. The music was very loud and blaring out of a light blue portable gramophone. Guido went and turned down the volume, ever so slightly bobbing his head to the rhythm of the song.
‘I liked that,’ said Bordelli, curious. In that song he heard a power that seemed to carry the listener away with it. The dog went and lay down in a corner, resting its muzzle on its paws. The floor was covered with a carpet full of cigarette burns, and through the window, which gave on to the garden behind the house, the inspector saw the trunks of a few age-old pines and a stone fountain covered with moss.
‘Raffaele must have gone downstairs,’ said Guido.
‘To the cellar?’
‘He’s obsessed with my electric train set.’
‘You two play with electric trains?’ asked Bordelli, repressing a smile.
‘Come,’ said the young man. They left the room, walked back through the whole house, and entered a large kitchen. There was a wooden table so long that it could have seated twenty. Behind a small dark door was a staircase. As they descended, Bordelli heard a noise that sounded like potatoes frying in a giant pan.
‘Raffaele, there’s a policeman here looking for you,’ Guido called out in a loud voice. Nobody replied. When they got to the bottom of the stairs, Bordelli’s jaw dropped. In the dimly lit room, he saw a complicated network of railways with level crossings, tunnels, waterfalls, tree-covered hills … and six or seven trains with headlights on, travelling through the night. He felt like a giant looking on. On the other side of that miniature world was Raffaele, smoking, with great clouds of dense smoke swirling round his head. He waved hello to the inspector and started walking round the model trains. Taking a last puff, he threw the butt on the floor. He walked like a gunslinger, legs sheathed in black leather trousers. He came up to the inspector and shook his hand.
‘Have you come to arrest me?’ he said, smiling. His eyes were also bloodshot.
‘It might not be a bad idea,’ the inspector said, sniffing the air. There was a strong smell vaguely similar to that of burnt rosemary. Raffaele shrugged and turned to look at the trains penetrating the darkness with tiny headlamps the size of lentils.
‘When I get bored I come down here and watch,’ he said.
‘I’m going back upstairs,’ said Guido, heading for the stairs.
‘I won’t bother to ask what you two have been smoking,’ said Bordelli.
‘Whereas I know what drug you’ve been smoking,’ said Raffaele.
‘It’s the strongest of them all.’
‘It’s hardly a drug,’ Bordelli said defensively.
‘Just try going a week without smoking your governmentstamped cigarettes.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘My point is that we are sick and tired of having to deal with your hypocrisy … We are unsatisfied, very unsatisfied,’ Raffaele said calmly.
‘Who’s “we”?’
‘I was waiting for you to ask that. You know perfectly well what I’m talking about and are only pretending not to understand … And that’s exactly what we’re sick and tired of.’
Raffaele’s tone was not terribly aggressive. In fact, it was rather serene, if, perhaps, a bit disillusioned. He spoke as if he were repeating the most obvious things for the hundredth time. Bordelli said nothing. He didn’t know what to say. It was hard to give a name to what he was feeling, but there was no question that he had never before found himself in a situation like this. The young man could have been his son, and with his manner he seemed to be asking for a clout on the head … And it was he, Bordelli, who felt ill at ease. He who had fought the war against the Nazis and the Fascists, suffered the cold, risked his life for his country … Jesus bloody Christ, he was turning into an old dodderer spewing rhetoric!
Raffaele turned off the power switch for the trains, and all railway traffic stopped at once. He then gestured to Bordelli, inviting him to go back upstairs with him, and started up the steps. The inspector followed behind.
They went back into Guido’s room. The dog looked at them without bothering to raise its head, thumping its tail. The gramophone was playing the same disc as before, at a more acceptable volume. Guido was sitting on the bed, holding a guitar and trying to keep up with the music. Raffaele sat down on the carpet and leaned back against the wall. The inspector went over to the record player and picked up the empty dust jacket for the disc. He read the title:
‘Satisfaction’. Under it were three boys with hair over their ears and faces like tough guys. But they also had something feminine about them, too, like Raffaele, and, like him, seemed to belong to a different race. The inspector thumbed through some of the other records, all with English names he didn’t recognise.
‘What do the words say?’ he asked.
‘They say what I was saying before,’ Raffaele quipped. The inspector dropped the records and put his hands into the pockets of his trench coat. He started fingering his packet of cigarettes, without making up his mind to take it out. He didn’t want the two children to see that he was a drug addict. The song ended, and for a few seconds there was only the scraping of the needle on the record, but then the arm rose with a click and went backwards. After the music, the silence seemed absolute. Guido was holding the guitar strings still with his fingers. The inspector calmly looked over at Raffaele, even though he still had that strange sensation of being a foreigner in a faraway land. He had come for a specific reason, and here he was wasting time.
‘Your friend told me that on Friday the tenth the two of you were together the whole day. Can you confirm that for me?’ he asked Raffaele.
‘Will it serve any purpose if I reply?’
‘That depends,’ said the inspector. Raffaele made a wry face.
‘I think I understand. You plan to keep badgering me with your little questions until I throw myself on the ground, weeping, and confess to my sins.’
‘That does happen sometimes,’ said Bordelli, smiling. But little by little he was beginning to realise he had more or less reached a dead end. Raffaele had a good motive to kill, was left-handed, and did not have an ironclad alibi. But, aside from these facts, there was no evidence against him. If something concrete didn’t turn up soon, the murder case’s file would end up on a courthouse shelf with a nice long number on it and be soon forgotten.
‘I didn’t kill the bastard,’ said Raffaele. His friend started playing and wailing something very softly, head bent over the instrument’s resonance chamber. What was happening in the room seemed of no concern to him at all.
‘Maybe you both did it,’ said Bordelli. Guido stopped his strumming and looked up.
‘Did what?’ he said.
‘Killed Badalamenti.’
‘I don’t know him,’ said Guido, who kept staring at him. Raffaele calmly went up to Bordelli.
‘I’ve already told you what I think, Inspector … The sewer rat deserved to be murdered.’
‘Then tell me the rest.’
‘Somebody gave him what he had coming to him, but it wasn’t me. I have nothing else to add,’ said Raffaele.
‘I foresee a lot of long conversations with you, Mr Montigiani.’
‘All right, then, Inspector, I did it, I killed him, I stuck those scissors in his neck … but this is only the beginning, I’m going to kill a lot more shitbags like him,’ said Raffaele, crossing his arms over his chest. For the first time, Guido’s face broke into a smile.
‘I’ll be seeing you soon,’ said Bordelli, not knowing what else to say.
‘I’ll show you out,’ said Guido, laying the guitar down on the bed.
‘No need,’ Bordelli said, stopping him.
‘Happy Christmas, Inspector,’ said Raffaele, giving him a military salute, then turning round and going over to the record player. Bordelli left the room. A few seconds later the sound of the same electric guitar burst out, soon followed by the voice. He walked through the house without looking around, then closed the main door behind him with the feeling of having been through an ordeal. At the gate he ran into the cleaning lady, who was returning with the shopping. She was tall with broad shoulders and thin white hair.
‘Good morning,’ said Bordelli. The woman looked at him with suspicion and muttered a reply. She had a large mole on her chin, bristling with hair. She set her shopping bags down on the ground, waited for the stranger to leave, and then made sure the gate was locked. She remained there, watching Bordelli through the bars. She looked like a cloistered nun from Santa Verdiana. The inspector got into his car, turned it round and went back towards town. It was time to go see Totò and eat something. Piras closed the kitchen door and looked in the directory for the telephone number of a lawyer called Luigi Musillo. He found it and dialled the number.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m looking for Musillo, the lawyer. My name’s Piras.’
‘I’m Musillo.’
‘I’m a friend of the family of Benigno Staffa, sir,’ Piras said in a soft voice, so his mother wouldn’t hear.
‘I heard about the tragedy,’ said Musillo.
‘I would like to speak to you. When do you think we could meet?’ Piras asked. He didn’t want to stay on the phone too long.
‘Is there some problem?’ the lawyer asked.
‘I’m sorry, but I’d rather discuss this in person.’
‘All right, then. Call me right after Christmas.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but it’s quite urgent. I forgot to mention … I’m with the police.’
‘Has something happened?’ asked Musillo, slightly alarmed.
‘I don’t know yet, but I would like to see you as soon as possible.’ Musillo heaved a long sigh and remained silent for a few seconds.
‘Would tomorrow morning at eleven be all right?’ he finally said.
‘That would be perfect, thank you.’ Piras said goodbye and hung up. He went into the kitchen and saw the table already set. He was very hungry. His mother was cooking something in a skillet. It had to be pork.
‘How long till we eat?’ he asked.
‘Not long,’ said Maria. Gavino was hammering away at something in the tool shed behind the house.
‘What’s he doing?’ asked Pietrino.
‘Fixing the chicken-coop door.’
‘Again?’ he said in surprise.
‘He found another dead hen with her bottom bitten off.’
‘It’s a lost cause when you’re dealing with martens,’ said Pietrino.
‘You know what Dad’s like. He’s stubborn like you,’ said Maria, who went and stirred the meat.
‘Pina says she and Giovanni will come by on Christmas Eve, before mass,’ said Pietrino.
‘Poor Pina …’
‘Maybe they’ll come tonight for the movie.’
‘The Faddas are coming too,’ said Maria. That evening there was an American musical on the telly. The Piras’s kitchen had become a sort of cinema, especially on Mondays and Wednesdays, when there was a film on TV. Piras waited for his mother to put the pasta in the water, then hopped on his crutches to the telephone and dialled Sonia’s number.
At half past seven the sky was as black as the bottom of a well. The inspector left the station and got into his car with the intention of going and getting Badalamenti’s Porsche. Then he changed his mind. Driving slowly through the back streets of Florence, he arrived at the hills at the edge of town. He was lost in thought, patiently chewing the end of an unlit cigarette. The song with the guitar he’d heard at Guido’s house was still playing in his head, though he would never have been able to sing it. He turned up another small street and came out at Via Senese. He turned left, drove past Galluzzo and, a few minutes later, down Via di Quintole. He’d failed to resist the temptation to go to Odoardo’s house.
He entered the unpaved driveway and parked on the threshing floor. The house was in total darkness. There wasn’t even a light on under the loggia, and so he left the headlamps on. He got out and went to see whether the Vespa was there. It wasn’t. It was very cold outside. He got back into the car, turned off the headlamps, and settled in to wait for the boy. There was a bit of moonlight. The dark silhouette of the Lancia Ardea reminded him of a dead whale beached on the sand.
He decided to wait until nine for Odoardo. If the kid didn’t show up by then, he would return the following morning. He wanted to see him as soon as possible, there was no getting round it. By now he was convinced the lad was hiding something, and he had an overwhelming desire to find out what. Getting more comfortable in the seat, he lit a cigarette. It must have been his fourth, but he wasn’t sure. If he wanted to count them in earnest, he would have to mark a notch in pen on the packet each time he lit one. Too much trouble.
Suddenly a light shone in the distance. It was the headlamp of a motorbike coming up Via di Quintole, and he hoped it would be Odoardo’s Vespa. Every so often the light would disappear round a bend and then reappear. When it was opposite the house it slowed down and then turned towards the farmstead. Odoardo drove across the threshing floor wearing his motorcycle goggles and a red scarf that covered half his face. When he passed by the Beetle he slowed down for a moment, then went on. He took the Vespa up under the loggia and turned off the motor. A few seconds later two lights came on, one shining on to the threshing floor, the other above the front door of the house. The inspector got out of the car and went towards the youth. Odoardo was wearing an oversized coat and holding the usual bag. He seemed chilled and was shivering slightly. Bordelli went up to him, holding out his hand.
‘Hello, Odoardo,’ he said.
The boy removed a glove and shook his hand. He looked at Bordelli without surprise but seemed quite irritated.
‘What brings you out this way, Inspector? Are you on the trail of a wild boar?’ he said with a straight face.
‘If you’ve got a minute, I’d like to have a little talk with you.’
‘What about?’
‘Why don’t we go inside? I can see you’re cold, too.’ Odoardo sighed and turned the key in the door.
‘I don’t have much time, I have to go out again in half an hour.’
‘I’ll take only ten minutes of your time.’ They entered a large unfurnished room, then the inspector followed Odoardo up some stone stairs. The inside of the house was not in the same state of abandon as the outside. The air was warm, and it all smelled clean. They entered a big room with a great fireplace charred black and full of ashes. Beside it was a box for fruit now full of old newspapers; the firewood was stacked in a corner. The terracotta-tiled floor was almost entirely covered by an enormous oriental carpet. There was little furniture, but one could see that this was by choice.
‘I like this house,’ said Bordelli.
‘My mother did everything,’ said Odoardo. On the opposite side of the room there was a dark doorway leading into a corridor. Bordelli looked around a little more. The couch and armchairs were from the twenties, their fabric a bit worn, and in the middle of the room was a low table of burnished wood. On the walls were some pictures, a functioning pendulum clock and a map of the world. The walls were yellowed with age but in good condition. It was the kind of house one could quickly grow fond of, thought Bordelli. Odoardo took his hat off and tossed it on to the back of an armchair. He seemed calm, as if resigned to the intrusion.
‘No television?’ Bordelli asked.
‘No.’
‘It’s amusing sometimes.’
‘I’m sure it is.’
‘At other times, however …’
‘Do you mind if I change my clothes?’ Odoardo asked, though it wasn’t really a question.
‘Just act as if I wasn’t here,’ said Bordelli.
‘That’s asking too much. Meanwhile, if you’d like something to drink …’ said the young man, pointing to a glass-fronted cabinet. Bordelli thanked him, went over to the cabinet and opened it. In the first row he saw a dark bottle with a handwritten label on it that said: Nocino 1962.18 He took it and held it in the air.
‘May I?’ he asked.
‘Please do, the glasses are below.’ Bordelli took a small glass and filled it to the brim. Odoardo was unbuttoning his shirt.
‘What was it you wanted to say to me?’ he asked calmly.
‘This nocino is excellent,’ Bordelli said.
‘Did your mother make it?’
‘How’d you guess?’ said Odoardo in the tone of someone who knew how to ignore provocations. Then he went down the dark corridor and disappeared behind the first door. Bordelli started walking about the room, sipping the nocino and poking about. On the mantelpiece he noticed an old hand grenade. It was Italian, a model he knew well. He unscrewed it, made sure it was empty, then closed it again.
‘Did your mother like hand grenades?’ he asked, raising his voice to be heard.
‘That’s mine,’ the youth yelled.
‘I’ve seen quite a few of these explode. They do a lot of harm.’
‘What did you do during the war, Inspector?’
‘I was in the San Marco brigades.’
‘They were Fascists, if I remember correctly.’
‘Only a minority, up north. I was with Marshal Badoglio’s San Marco.’
‘What did you do?’
‘We paved the way for the American advance. We were putting salt on the Germans’ tails almost daily.’ Odoardo reappeared in the room, buttoning up a white shirt.
‘Did you kill of a lot of them?’ he asked.
‘I tried my best.’
‘The bastards deserved it.’
‘Killing is never fun, but in that case I felt I was ridding the world of an infection.’
‘I agree,’ Odoardo said coldly.
‘Maybe killing a loan shark gives you the same feeling,’ said Bordelli, looking him in the eye. Odoardo stiffened a little.
‘You should ask that question of someone who can answer it,’ he said, disappearing again into his room. Having finished his glass of nocino, Bordelli went back to refill it. He really felt like smoking, but as usual tried to resist. With the little glass in his hand, he went slowly down the corridor and poked his head into Odoardo’s room. He found him seated and tying his shoes. I’m seriously thinking about finding a house like this to live in,’ said Bordelli, looking up at the ceiling rafters, riddled with woodworm holes.
‘Lucky you …’
‘Why do you say that? Do you think it’s such a bad thing to move to the country?’ Odoardo stood up, turned off the light and left the room, passing by the inspector and looking annoyed.
‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but I still haven’t understood what this urgent thing was that you needed to talk to me about.’ Bordelli followed him into the great room with the fireplace and set his empty glass down on the table.
‘I like you, Odoardo. But don’t take it the wrong way. I mean it man to man. I’m convinced I’m dealing with an intelligent person, and I’d like to talk to you a little more.’
‘I don’t understand what about,’ said Odoardo.
‘Well, for example, I’d like to give you some of the details of that murder. I still remember them clearly … Did I mention that Badalamenti lived close to me?’
‘I don’t know who he was and I couldn’t care less that he was murdered.’
‘I haven’t heard a single nice thing about the man. Don’t you think that’s sad?’ the inspector asked. Odoardo put on his coat and sighed impatiently.
‘I have to go now,’ he said, finger on the light switch.
‘Of course,’ said Bordelli. The youth turned out the light and started descending the stairs, followed by the inspector, who was humming an aria of Rossini. They went out into the loggia and Odoardo closed the front door with a swift tug before turning the key. The air was freezing cold.
‘Goodbye, Inspector,’ said Odoardo, shaking his hand more firmly than usual. He then started up his Vespa and straddled it. Revving the engine a couple of times, he pushed it off its kick-stand. Bordelli came up to him, waving away the oily white smoke that had invaded the loggia.
‘I’ll be coming back to see you, Odoardo. I’ve still got something that belonged to your mother.’
‘You can give it to me now.’
‘Not yet,’ said the inspector.
‘This is far too mysterious for my taste.’
‘I’ve got my reasons.’
‘I’m sure you have.’
‘Why don’t you ask me why I won’t give it to you straight away?’
‘Because I know you would just answer me with a question,’ Odoardo said with a malicious smile. He turned the Vespa towards the courtyard and revved it again. The engine was misfiring and emitting a great deal of smoke.
‘Maybe it’s flooded,’ said Bordelli.
‘Maybe.’
‘When you’ve got a little more time, I’d still like to have that talk with you.’
‘Didn’t we just have it now?’
‘You didn’t give me enough time,’ said Bordelli, smiling. Odoardo looked at him, eyes flashing with hatred. He arranged the scarf around his neck, put on his goggles, and put the scooter into first gear. Making a final gesture of goodbye, he left, leaving a cloud of white smoke in his wake. Bordelli didn’t leave straight away. The place gave him a feeling of peace. Odoardo had left a light on, and it shone on a little Madonna built into the wall at the corner of the house. The dim lamp cast a lunar glow across the threshing floor. He put a cigarette between his lips, lit it and stood there listening to the sound of the Vespa heading down towards the Certosa. As he blew the smoke out of his mouth, he looked up. The sky was black and riddled with stars.
‘Do you know, my dear Inspector, where the word assassin comes from?’
‘No, Rosa, I don’t think so.’
‘And you’re supposed to be a policeman?’ she asked.
‘Should I be ashamed?’
‘If you like, I’ll tell you myself.’
‘Okay.’
‘Wait for me here …’
‘Who’s going anywhere?’ said Bordelli, with a glass in his hand and his feet propped up on the coffee table. Rosa ran into her bedroom and returned with a small book decorated with arabesques. She turned off all the lights except for a small reading lamp beside her. The coloured lights on the Christmas tree flashed on and off in clusters and created a sense of peace in the dimly lit room. Putting on her glasses, Rosa looked for the page and started reading in a fairy-tale tone of voice …
‘“In the year 1000, in a great oasis there lived a very powerful Arabian prince who was the envy of all. He had many enemies, and wanted an army of devoted followers in whom he could place his blind trust. For months he thought day and night how he might do this. He paced back and forth, and back and forth, without rest …”’ – Bordelli closed his eyes, the better to listen –
‘“until, one day, he had an idea. He summoned his most faithful servant and ordered him to dissolve a great deal of hashish in his men’s wine, and when they fell asleep he had them transported to a beautiful garden, full of flowers and fountains and lovely, sweet women, and food fit for a king, and great jugs of scented wine. The men enjoyed all these pleasures and felt happy. But that wine, too, was mixed with hashish, and soon they fell asleep again. When they reopened their eyes, they were back in their familiar world, and they felt sad. The prince had them summoned to him, and he looked them in the eyes and said: ‘You have been in the garden of valorous men, the place that awaits you if you die for me in battle. But for as long as you are alive, every time you kill one of my enemies, you shall return to that garden for a few hours.’ And so, in the hope of tasting those pleasures again, the prince’s men became ferocious, ruthlessly killing anyone who dared threaten the prince. They would go out in groups and return with scimitars dripping with blood. Soon people began to call them the hachchaachii, that is, the hashish drinkers, and from this derives the word assassin …” Did you know that?’
‘No, I didn’t. But it’s a nice story.’
‘Have you ever smoked the stuff ?’ Rosa asked, a little smile on her lips.
‘No, I’ve never come across any.’
‘And what if your Rosina happened to have a little bit of weed?’ Bordelli gave her an amused look.
‘Finish your sentence.’
‘Would you smoke it with me?’
‘I should warn you that I’m a policeman.’
‘Would you arrest me before or after we smoked the joint?’
‘Where did you get it?
‘A girlfriend of mine gave it to me, but don’t ask me who, because I’m not a snitch,’ said Rosa, crossing two fingers over her lips.
‘What’s it like?’ asked Bordelli, curious.
‘It makes you feel light headed.’
‘So I would need some every day.’
‘It’s fun, and then you get hungry like you wouldn’t believe …’
‘That’s never been a problem for me.’
‘Do you want to try it or not?’ she asked impatiently.
‘Well, I guess, as a policeman, it’s my duty to get to know certain things from up close,’ said Bordelli, trying to remain serious. But he really was rather curious to know what sort of effect the stuff had. He didn’t want to remain in the dark on the subject, especially when dealing with people like Raffaele.
‘Yes or no?’ said Rosa, as insistent as a little girl.
‘All right.’
‘I knew it! I knew it!’ Rosa turned on a light in the corner and ran back to her room, hands fluttering. She returned a second later with a small wooden box.
‘Okay, now I’ll show you how you do it,’ she said.
‘My friend taught me.’ She kicked off her shoes and sat down on the carpet, crossing her legs like a fakir. Then she opened the box and took out the necessary items. Marijuana, rolling papers, and tobacco. Bordelli observed the procedure. Rosa took a small strip of cardboard about one third the length of a cigarette, rolled it up tightly and set it aside, then picked a magazine up from the table, placed it in her lap, and dumped some tobacco on it. Then she mixed some of the marijuana into the tobacco and slid the blend into a cigarette paper, put the little roll of cardboard at one end, and rolled it all up into a joint.
‘Voilà!’ she said, holding it up in the air. It was all crooked, with clumps of tobacco sticking out of one end.
‘Now we only have to light it,’ said Bordelli.
‘I’ll let you have the honour.’
‘If you insist.’ Rosa handed him the cigarette and struck a match.
‘You have to inhale the smoke and hold it in for a few seconds. It works better that way,’ she said in the tone of an expert. Bordelli obeyed and, after taking three or four puffs, passed the joint to Rosa. It had a nice smell, and the taste it left in one’s mouth wasn’t bad, either. Rosa took a drag and coughed.
‘Do you like it?’ she asked, passing it back to him.
‘I certainly like the smell.’
‘It takes a few minutes before you feel the effect.’ Taking puff after puff, they finished the cigarette. Rosa got up to put a record on the gramophone at low volume. It was Famous Symphonies of Rossini, directed by Toscanini. Then she went and sat down comfortably on the sofa.
‘Where’s Gideon?’ Bordelli asked. He hadn’t seen him yet.
‘Out roaming the roofs,’ said Rosa.
‘There must be a female involved.’
‘Don’t you feel anything yet?’ she said, giggling.
‘I guess not,’ said Bordelli, listening to The Thieving Magpie with his eyes closed. But the moment he’d said it he realised that the music was entering his head differently … as if the melody were forming inside his brain and then coming out of his ears. He didn’t know how else to explain it. Without opening his eyes, he made a gesture to Rosa, to let her know that the stuff was starting to work.
‘The music …’ he said.
‘What about the music?’ asked Rosa.
‘I’m imagining it … it’s like a great big snake moving around.’
‘A snake?’ she asked.
‘It seems all … I don’t know how to say it … but it’s very interesting …’
‘And what’s this great big snake doing?’
‘It’s as if … it were coming out of my ears …’
‘What ears?’
‘It’s as if … as if I can see the music … and … see it turning into the snake,’ said Bordelli.
‘Your face looks strange,’ Rosa said in a serious tone. He opened his eyes and looked at her.
‘What do you mean?’ he said, touching his cheeks.
‘It’s as if …’
‘What?’
‘It’s like y …’ but she couldn’t finish her sentence and burst into laughter. When she caught her breath and tried to speak again, another even greater fit of laughter overcame her, and she flopped back on to the sofa. Bordelli kept touching his face, worried. And she kept laughing to the point of tears, not recovering her breath for a good minute. Sitting up, she pointed a finger at Bordelli and started laughing even harder than before. Her face turned all red, and at one point she seemed to have gone so long without breathing that it appeared as if she could die. She tried two or three more times to speak, but couldn’t even manage to get out the first consonant. At a certain point Bordelli caught the giggles too, and started laughing for no reason at all. Or perhaps there was a reason, but he didn’t know yet what it was. He was laughing, full stop. And more and more. It was hard to speak.
‘You say … my face … is it … the snake? …’ he managed to say between hiccups. Rosa was rolling around on the couch, shaking her hands as if to tell him to stop. She was squeezing her legs together and seemed in danger of peeing her pants. They both carried on laughing and laughing like idiots, weeping from the strain.
‘M … my … face …’ Bordelli said with great effort, but didn’t have the breath to continue. Rosa rolled off the couch, holding her stomach, then managed to bolt to her feet and, running on tiptoe, raced to the bathroom. Bordelli flopped back in his chair, letting the William Tell Overture enter one ear at a gallop and exit the other just as fast. He couldn’t recall ever having laughed that way before. Rosa kept on laughing in the bathroom, then took a deep breath, and all fell silent. She returned a few moments later, reeling. She looked serious. She sat down like a good girl, then raised her eyes, looked at Bordelli, and opened her mouth …
‘Your face … looks like it’s falling down,’ she managed to say, then burst out laughing so hard that Bordelli almost thought he should somehow help her. But he wouldn’t have had the strength, because he too then started laughing again like a simpleton. Little by little they regained their senses. Rosa got up and, light as a butterfly, went and put a more ‘modern’ disc on the gramophone.
‘You were right, Rosa. Now I feel hungry,’ said Bordelli.
‘Me too …’ They ate a bit of everything, drinking wine and listening to Modugno. As soon as the song
‘Vitti‘na crozza’19 ended, Gideon started scratching at the pane of the French door. Rosa went to let him in, and he replied with a miaow. He allowed her only one caress, then, tail wagging, ran to the far end of the room and hopped up on to the sideboard. Lying down at once, he licked a paw three or four times, yawned, and then closed his eyes, with the two of them looking on.
‘All he ever does is sleep,’ said Rosa. Bordelli looked at his watch and stretched his back.
‘I think I’ll go to bed too,’ he said.
‘It’s barely half past two,’ she complained.
‘I need to sleep, Rosa.’
‘Oh, poo …‘a donna riccia non la voglio n-no …’ she started singing along with Modugno.20
‘I don’t suppose you could give me a bit of that stuff ?’ asked Bordelli, gesturing towards the little box with the marijuana inside.
‘I’d like to continue my investigation of its effects.’
‘Only if you don’t leave …’
‘I’m sorry, Rosa, but I’m a wreck. And tomorrow I have a very busy day.’
‘You’re mean,’ she said. Then she tore a page out of the magazine, put a little grass and a few rolling papers in it, wrapped it all up in a little package, and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
‘You’re a dear,’ said Bordelli. He drank his last drop of wine and stood up. Rosa followed him to the door, still huffing in frustration. When she didn’t feel like sleeping, it bored her to be alone. On the wall in the entranceway hung a sort of small bowl with the face of Pope John XXIII on it. Rosa ran her finger over it.
‘Look how dirty. I really need to dust the place,’ she said, frowning.
‘Goodnight, Rosa.’
‘Will I see you again before Christmas, monkey?’
‘I’ll come on Christmas Eve with your present.’
‘Oh, goody! You’ve already bought it?’ she asked, her expression changing.
‘Of course,’ Bordelli lied.
‘What is it? No, wait, don’t tell me!’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Bordelli. He opened the door and lowered his voice.
‘Let’s be quiet,’ he said, gesturing towards the door of Signora Anichini, an old maid born not long after the unification of Italy who still liked to spy and eavesdrop on other people. Rosa stood up on tiptoe and kissed the inspector on the chin.
‘Goodnight, Rosa, thanks for everything.’
‘You’re leaving me all alone, you wicked man.’ He kissed her hand, as in the old days. He knew she liked it. A last wave goodbye and he vanished down the stairs, quiet as a burglar, followed by Rosa’s incomprehensible whisperings. As he was descending the last flight, a rapid-fire burst of kisses came down through the stairwell. When he was already at the main door, he heard Rosa’s voice.
‘Tell me what the present is, since I’ll forget anyway.’
‘Sshhh …’ said Bordelli, closing the door behind him.
The weather had taken a turn for the worse. It was raining. The car seat was cold, but Bordelli barely noticed. He drove distractedly, grinding the gears. When he got home, he went straight to the kitchen. He was still hungry. He wolfed down a slice of the pecorino he’d bought at the market in Impruneta and finished what little was left of the finocchiona salami. All without bread, since there wasn’t any. He even scarfed down half a banana and a week-old piece of mozzarella. Then he rolled himself another cigarette of that stuff and smoked it pacing slowly about the flat. He really liked the smell of it. He went and poked his head back into the room he never left open. Nobody had ever slept in it. Which was sad, when you came right down to it. He decided that he would fix it up a little by the end of the month. He might even sleep there himself from time to time, just for a change. Closing the door again, he went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He couldn’t quite grasp how he actually felt. His face in the mirror looked back at him with an amused expression, and he felt as if he was being watched. He’d never felt that way before. But, still, he also felt calm and relaxed.
He went into the bedroom and got undressed. He folded his clothes, which he had never done before, and arranged them tidily on a chair. Then he got into bed, switched off the light, and turned on to his side. He felt as if he were floating in the middle of the room and let his mind drift away. He fell asleep thinking of the hashish drinkers who woke up in a pleasure garden.