by Marco Vichi
The wind had picked up and was violently shaking the olive branches. It was a night for wolves. He quickened his pace, hair swirling over his head. Seeing his house from afar he imagined Eleonora waiting for him inside, under the covers, but this sweet thought did nothing but plunge him into despair.
The moment he set foot in his house he poured himself a small glass of grappa and knocked it back in one gulp. He went upstairs, legs feeling heavy, got undressed and crawled into bed. He turned off the light and curled up in the cold sheets like a little boy awaiting his goodnight kiss.
He was dreaming he was under a hail of German machine-gun fire, holed up with his mates in an abandoned farmhouse. A burst even fiercer than the rest woke him up … Someone was knocking at the door. He heard a voice call out and recognised it as Ennio’s. He turned on the light and looked at the clock. Ten past eight. Dammit, he’d forgotten he had an appointment with him to start work on the garden …
‘Coming! …’ he cried in a hoarse voice. Getting out of bed with great effort, he got dressed with eyes still half shut. Botta kept on knocking. He staggered down the stairs, not yet having fully emerged from his dream, Nazi machine-guns still ringing in his ears. When he opened the door, Ennio Botta threw up his hands.
‘Inspector, don’t tell me you were still asleep …’
‘I’m not an inspector any more, Ennio.’
‘Inspectors are born, not made, and you, in all modesty, are one,’ said Botta, stepping inside the house.
‘Sorry. I went to bed late last night.’
‘If you’re going to be a farmer you have to get up with the sun.’
‘Just let me have a coffee and I’ll be ready. You want some?’
‘I’d better make it myself.’
Botta got down to work, while Bordelli went upstairs to wash his face and pull himself together. When he returned to the kitchen, the coffee was ready.
‘How many teaspoons of sugar, Inspector?’
‘Just one, thanks.’
‘Good …’ Ennio spooned the sugar into the empty cups and poured the coffee over it, as he always did.
‘Today we’re going to prepare the ground for the tomatoes,’ he said.
‘I can hardly wait …’
‘I still wonder whether you made the right decision, moving to the country.’
‘No one will ever make me go back to the city, Ennio.’
They were sitting at the table, opposite each other. Botta’s coffee was superb. And yet he’d used the same coffee pot and the same ground beans Bordelli used every day.
‘You know, this whole story of you leaving your job doesn’t really make sense to me, Inspector.’
‘I did it for you, Ennio. Now you can tell me about all the crimes you committed without any worry.’
‘Those weren’t crimes, Inspector …’
‘Then what were they?’ asked Bordelli, curious to hear the answer.
‘The art of survival.’
‘There are people who work for a living …’
‘So you want to pack Botta off to a factory to spend the day hammering slabs of metal? You want to kill me?’
‘Weren’t you going to open a restaurant?’
‘Of course … If a certain deal goes well for me … I’m talking big stuff, mind … Something to set me up for life …’
‘Just be sure you don’t get caught, Ennio. It would make me too sad.’
‘I’ve already told you, Inspector, I will never go back to jail. I’ve learned my lesson … I will never get caught again like some bleeding amateur. Nowadays I do things right. It’s all scientific.’
‘Like that deal in Persons Unknown …’5 Bordelli said, smiling.
‘Take a good look at me, Inspector. Do I look like the type to spend his life rotting behind bars?’
‘If you get caught I’m going to start crying, Ennio.’
‘It’s not going to happen, I can promise you that.’
‘So what’s this big deal you keep talking about? Maybe I can give you some advice …’ Bordelli said, turning serious.
Botta shook his head. ‘I don’t need any. It’s all going swimmingly. Maybe I’ll tell you about it when it’s all done, over a bottle of wine … The way you like it.’
‘As you wish.’
‘Shall we get down to work, Inspector?’ asked Botta, standing up.
‘I’m not an inspector any more …’
‘So what should I call you?’
‘You know what, Ennio?’
‘What?’
‘I’ve only just now realised that I always speak to you in the familiar form and you always use the polite form with me …’
‘So what?’
‘Doesn’t that seem strange to you?’
‘I’ve never noticed.’
‘So why don’t we both cut the formalities?’
‘I can’t, Inspector.’
‘Enough of this “inspector” stuff, Ennio. Call me Franco and scrap the formality.’
‘Let’s just leave things the way they are, Inspector … And now let’s go and dig some holes for the tomato plants,’ said Botta, heading for the door.
Bordelli stuck a cigarette between his lips and followed him. They went into the gardening room to get the tools left behind by the former owner, then out through a door that led behind the house, where they’d decided to put the garden. It was a beautiful day, with a sky that looked like the background to a Trecento Madonna.
‘What are you going to do with them?’ Ennio asked, referring to the abandoned olive grove in a tone of commiseration. ‘Are you going to let them go or do you want to make oil?’
The boughs of the trees had been left to grow freely and now soared some fifteen to twenty feet in the air.
‘I wouldn’t mind making oil,’ said Bordelli, scratching his head.
‘Just at a glance I’d say nobody’s touched these trees for at least ten years. You’d have to weed the whole grove, and then come April the trees should be drastically cut back, to reinvigorate them. If all went well, you might get your first oil by December of ’69. Then you have to have them pruned every year, treat them with fungicide at least twice, and manure the ground … Then there’s the harvest … the press … Actually, making oil’s a lot of work.’
‘You’re making me change my mind …’
‘If you want some advice, find someone whose does it for a living and would be happy to be paid with some of the oil.’
‘Okay, I’ll try … Thanks …’
‘I think a kitchen garden’s quite enough for someone like you.’
‘I’m not sure if I should feel insulted,’ said Bordelli, but Botta was already thinking about the tomato plants. He was studying the weed-infested future garden, rubbing his chin. One could see from his look that there was a great deal of work to be done.
‘I’d say we should put them from here to down there – that should accommodate about thirty plants. Let’s get busy.’
‘Yes, sir!’ said Bordelli, sketching a military salute.
‘If you don’t do things right, nothing will grow.’
‘How’s this soil seem to you?’
‘Well, Impruneta is famous for its terracotta.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning there’s a lot of clay in the soil. The area’s full of quarries and brickworks. Carrots won’t grow here, and potatoes have a rough time of it, too, but cabbage’ll come up like nobody’s business.’
‘So let’s plant cabbage …’
‘Not now, Inspector. Cabbage grows in winter. But anyway, it’s not for you, believe me,’ said Botta, shaking his head.
‘Then what can we plant in spring?’
‘A whole lot of things, but for now we’ll start with tomatoes. If you manage to get a good crop, next year I’ll give you a hand planting some cucumbers, aubergines, radishes and beans.’
‘Sounds like a tall order to me …’
‘Let’s get down to work.’
They mowe
d the grass with billhooks and piled it up to one side. Then they started breaking up the ground, sweating under a blue sky that already hinted at spring. There was a blinding sun, but the soft, persistent wind got the better of the warm air.
Bordelli was thoughtful. Two days earlier he’d killed a child-strangler, and now he was working the land to create a kitchen garden for himself. He thought of the butcher’s wife and daughter, who had done nothing wrong. Surely they were overwhelmed with grief, but wasn’t a husband and father who died by his own hand better than a rapist and murderer? In essence he had spared those two creatures the pain of discovering something that would have ruined them for life …
‘You know what you could plant? Hot peppers …’ said Botta.
‘Splendid.’ Bordelli just loved hot peppers, even if he’d never dreamed he’d be growing them.
‘They’re easy, at least. You put the seeds in some nice big pots and then water them. They’re beautiful plants, even to look at.’
‘When can I start planting?’
‘By next week.’
‘Good …’
They finished turning the soil. Bordelli was exhausted, while Ennio, for his part, seemed as if he’d only played a round of bocce. Under Botta’s direction they dug some holes almost a foot and a half deep. Three rows of twelve holes each.
‘As in the time of Christ,’ said Ennio, leaning on his spade.
‘You’ll have to help me plant the tomatoes, too.’
‘You mean sow, not plant. If you want to be a farmer you have to use the right words.’
‘I’ll do my best. Where can I find the seeds?’
‘You can try the cooperative in Impruneta, but I don’t think they’ll have any. You’re better off asking some of the local peasants. And San Marzano seeds are best: they’re good for making all kinds of things.’
‘And then what?’
‘You have to sow the seeds in a patch of well-turned earth and add a bit of compost … If you’ve got the patience, you can get some in the woods, otherwise just buy a sack or two of it at the co-op.’
‘I’ll just buy it, don’t worry.’
‘You could sow them here,’ said Botta, pointing to a corner of the garden plot.
‘Whatever you say.’
‘After about a month, the plants will be about five inches tall, as long as the weather cooperates. If all goes well, you’ll then carefully uproot them and plant them in the holes we’ve made. And get some peasant around here to give you some pollina.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Chicken shit.’
‘Splendid … And what am I supposed to do with it?’
‘You must put it in a bucket full of water to mellow it, making sure to stir it with a stick every morning for about ten days. Three weeks after transplanting the small shoots, you can use it as fertiliser. Not before, however, or you’ll burn the roots. It should be diluted with a lot of water, and you should use half a litre per plant every day for at least a month.’
‘Anything else?’
‘You thought that would be all? The first thing you must do is fence the whole area off, otherwise the boar will eat everything. Then you must cover the just-transplanted shoots with wooden crates, to protect them from the sun while they’re putting down roots. You must water them daily – better yet, twice a day, early in the morning and at sunset. But not too much, just the right amount. When they start to grow you then have to plant poles beside them and fasten the plants for support. And obviously you need more and more water. By late June you’ll need at least five or six litres of water per plant, twice a day …’
‘I have to confess that by this point I’m thinking of going to the supermarket and stocking up on canned tomatoes,’ said Bordelli, wiping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.
‘You’ll change your mind after you’ve tasted your own tomatoes,’ Botta predicted.
‘I can’t wait …’
‘Along the wall you could put some pots with aromatic herbs – basil, thyme, marjoram, chives, mint …’
‘Right, I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘Don’t waste your time looking for them. When the time comes I’ll bring you some, already grown, so all you’ll have to do is water them.’
‘May God bless your soul …’
‘It’s not time for that yet.’
‘Listen, it’s almost one o’clock. What do you say we go and have a steak down at il Ferrone?’
‘That’s not a bad idea, Inspector …’
‘I don’t see any inspectors around here,’ said Bordelli, propping his hoe against the wall.
They went into the kitchen to wash their hands and change as best they could. Climbing aboard Ennio’s Lambretta scooter, they took the dirt road down to il Ferrone, a hamlet of a few houses, a little stream, a large modern church of stone and concrete, a memorial tablet with the words HE WHO DIES FOR HIS COUNTRY HAS LIVED WELL, and a simple, unpretentious trattoria.
They sat down at a table apart from the rest. There weren’t many customers in the room, but the few there managed to make a great deal of noise just the same.
They ordered two grilled steaks with roast potatoes, and a salad to soothe their consciences. The wine arrived at once, and they started drinking.
‘Come on, Ennio … tell me about this deal you’re in on,’ Bordelli said under his breath.
‘Not now, Inspector …’
‘Why? Don’t you trust me?’
‘No, no, it’s not that … I’d just rather not say anything. I’m superstitious.’
‘I won’t deny that you’ve got me worried,’ said Bordelli.
‘It’ll all go fine … I just need to borrow a car, because I have to drive a rather long way.’
‘Tell you what, Ennio – and I’m going out on a limb, mind you – if you tell me what the job is, I’ll drive you myself …’
‘You don’t know what you’re saying, Inspector,’ Botta said, smiling.
‘I give you my word …’ Bordelli said, all serious. He knew it was risky, but he didn’t want Botta to get into trouble. Even if he was no longer active, a former police inspector might be able to save the day in certain situations. Ennio, too, turned serious and looked Bordelli in the eye.
‘Are you sure you won’t try to talk me out of it?’
‘I promise I won’t.’
‘Well … Do you remember when, in the days before the flood …’
At that moment the steaks arrived, and Botta broke off. They started devouring their steaks like a pair of cavemen. Turning the soil certainly whetted one’s appetite.
‘So, you were saying?’ Bordelli whispered after a long silence.
‘Do you remember when, in early November, you couldn’t find me?’
‘Unfortunately, yes …’ said Bordelli. He could scarcely forget that damned lock in Via Luna that he’d wanted Botta to pick, in hopes of finding evidence to incriminate Giacomo’s killers … But then the Great Flood came and washed everything away.
‘You know where I’d gone?’
Botta was beating about the bush, grinning with satisfaction.
‘Where?’
‘To Milan.’
‘Go on …’ Bordelli pressed him, anxious to know everything.
‘And do you know what I’d gone to do there?’
‘What?’
‘To meet some people,’ Botta said solemnly, as if he’d slain a dragon.
‘Come on, Ennio, get to the point.’
‘If this deal goes well for me, I’ll be set up for life … No one can make me change my mind …’
‘I won’t try to change anything, Ennio. Every man chooses his own life.’
‘Let’s make a toast,’ said Botta, raising his glass. Bordelli raised his own.
‘To what?’
‘You’re asking me? To my prosperity …’
They clinked glasses and drank a long draught of Chianti.
‘Get to the nitty-gritty, Ennio …’ said Bordelli
, increasingly impatient.
‘We’re getting there,’ Botta whispered, and they both leaned forward over the table. Ennio cupped his hands over his mouth and, moving his lips while emitting no obvious sound, revealed his secret. Bordelli was speechless for a moment, then shook his head.
‘That’s another Totò film,’ he said, discouraged.
‘Gimme a break. Totò …’
‘You should forget about this business, Ennio.’
‘Inspector, you said you wouldn’t try to talk me out of it.’
‘You’re right, I’m sorry. It was a moment of weakness,’ said Bordelli, thinking that when something is done for a good reason … Hadn’t he himself shot the butcher in the mouth? Did he feel like a murderer for it? Or rather …
‘It’ll all turn out the way it’s supposed to,’ said Ennio, and through gestures and whispers, like a Carbonaro,6 he told him about the rest of the affair in detail. When he’d finished he wrote down some figures on a piece of paper, to show him how profitable the deal would be. Their steaks had been stripped to the bone, the potatoes were gone, the salads untouched.
‘And what if something goes wrong?’ Bordelli asked in spite of himself. He didn’t want Ennio to end up back in jail.
‘Don’t play devil’s advocate, Inspector … At any rate, you’re not required to keep your promise,’ Botta said as a kind of challenge.
‘A San Marco sapper has only one word to give. I said I would take you there, and I will.’
This time it was he who raised his glass. Botta accepted the salute with a smile, and as they clinked their glasses they spilled some wine on to the tablecloth. Bordelli realised he was trapped, but lending Botta a hand was the only way to protect him. A wretch never gets rich, just as a rich man never goes to jail … Short of a miracle …
Country life was pleasant enough. The weather helped to regulate one’s daily life, gaining an importance it didn’t have in the city. The silence and slower rhythms invited one to meditate on everything, even when it seemed not worth the trouble. Sooner or later he would buy a record player, so he could listen to classical music and contemporary songs. But for now he would rather savour the silence.