by Marco Vichi
‘Well, in that case, I’d shoot …’ said Father Lenti, smiling, after which he made a slight bow and left.
Alone in the dark kitchen, he waited by the fire for half past one to strike, at which point he ever so slightly raised his glass of wine, toasting himself on his fifty-seventh birthday. His mother had always told him he was born at that hour of the night, during a windstorm. Maybe that was why he’d always liked wind.
That afternoon he’d gone alone to the Aurora to see The Graduate, a film everybody was talking about. The theatre was full, and as usual it wasn’t easy finding a seat in the balcony. He was able to follow the story without distractions, even though just opposite the cinema was the women’s clothing shop where he’d seen Eleonora for the first time. In spite of everything, he managed to smoke only one cigarette. He found the film’s ending quite touching and, feeling a little silly, imagined himself doing the same thing with Eleonora … or maybe Adele …
Drinking one glass after another, he finished the remaining half-flask, enveloped in the twilight of the kitchen. The only source of light was the fire in the hearth, as the shadows trembled on the walls. He lit his last cigarette, the fifth of the day. In spite of everything, he felt good. The lake of sadness surrounding him was familiar to him; he swam in it like a fish. His mind flooded with childhood memories, and he languished in melancholy. He would have given his right arm to go back to those days, when the world was a perpetual surprise – though, truth be told, there was no lack of surprises in his present life as well. But that was different. When he was a little boy, the world could change before his eyes at any moment. Now it was a little like looking into a kaleidoscope, where the little pieces of coloured glass would change their positions but were always the same pieces …
He tossed his cigarette butt into the fire and went to bed. He didn’t even try to read, feeling too tired. He switched off the light and turned on to his side, keeping his eyes closed in the hope that he would fall asleep quickly. A stream of confused thoughts and memories flowed through his brain, and he let the current carry him away like a boat adrift …
He dreamt of Blisk, the first Blisk, the big Nazi German Shepherd he’d taken home with him at the end of the war, after nursing a nasty wound the animal had … and he relived an episode that had actually happened. He’d come home a few weeks earlier, after five years of bombs, torpedoes and machine-gun fire. He was still living with his parents, in Viale Volta, while waiting to find his own accommodation. Blisk woke him up in the dead of night, pulling the covers off him with his teeth, soundlessly, and continually going over to the door as if trying to tell him something. Bordelli pricked up his ears and heard some sounds. Rushing into the dining room with a pistol in hand, he found two petty burglars rifling through the drawers. He managed just in time to stop Blisk, who was about to attack them. He turned on the light to get a better look at them. Two sorry wretches, with faces gaunt from privation. They were paralysed with fear and shaking, afraid to run away because of the dog, which had sat down and was still growling. Bordelli took him out of the room and closed the door, then gave the burglars some loose change and told them they could leave. The two looked at him as though he was mad and, after a moment’s hesitation, high-tailed it out of there. He went and patted Blisk, to let him know he’d done a good job … But in the dream he found the big white bear’s head in front of him …
When he woke the following morning, he realised that the sheet and blanket had ended up on the floor. Apparently Blisk – or rather, both Blisks, the Shepherd and the bear – had pulled them off. He pulled them up and stayed in bed for another half-hour, just to warm up a little.
It was almost nine when he got out of bed. After a cup of coffee and the customary sprinkling of the garden, he went for a long walk in the woods behind the house. Just a few months earlier, at that hour he was already in his office at police headquarters, hunting killers. Now he was no longer a working man, and yet he was still doing more or less the same thing. In the present instance he wasn’t arresting the killers, however, but resorting to different methods. But it wasn’t he who’d decided this … You simply couldn’t let a crime like that go unpunished. A little boy kidnapped, drugged, raped, strangled to increase the pleasure of orgasm, and then shoddily buried in a wood where wild boar had already started to eat his feet …
Now it was Monsignor Sercambi’s turn. Then it would be over. Bordelli hoped he would never again have to live through such an ordeal, but for now he had to see it through to the end … The monsignor would be the final effort. After him, the whole terrible crime would be buried for ever. Giacomo Pellissari could rest in peace …
He went home about two o’clock, pleased not to have smoked any cigarettes. He had a leisurely lunch, and after coffee he went and sat in the armchair with his book. A busy afternoon at the cooker awaited him. He lit his first cigarette of the day. Blisk’s bowl was still in its place and would remain there. While reading he very nearly fell asleep to the sound of the wind blowing across the fields …
At five o’clock he got up from the armchair, determined to get busy. He took his purchases out of the fridge and opened the gospel of Botta:
This version comes from my Zia Maria. Everyone has their own recipe, but after trying a good ten of them (essentially those of all my aunts – we’re a big family), I’ve come to the conclusion that this one gets first prize.
There’s not much to say about it, Inspector: the secret is entirely in the beans. You have to find the right beans: good, tasty beans, with plenty of pulp. Which shouldn’t be very hard to find in our city. Anyway, you know better than I: the Florentine eats beans … and licks plates and tureens …
The Peposo is a dish typical of Impruneta, Inspector. And since you live there now, I think it’s not a bad idea for you to learn how to make it. This recipe also comes from way back, apparently from the time they were building Florence Cathedral. It was invented by the craftsmen from the brickworks. In order to have a hot meal, they would cook the meat – which probably wasn’t top-notch – in the kilns they cooked the clay in, obviously as far as possible from the flames. And they would let it cook for hours and hours, until it became extremely tender …
For the rabbit recipe, Ennio had taken a roundabout approach, going into great detail, explaining where and when he’d learned it.
Once, when I was at La Rufina for a little job (nothing illegal, mind you, one mustn’t always imagine the worst, Inspector!), I went out to eat at a trattoria. Usually I don’t set foot in a restaurant until I’ve ‘studied’ it first, and I’ll walk around outside the place for a while, trying not to attract attention, to see what kind of people frequent it. I also do this, quite frankly, to avoid any nasty surprises when the bill arrives … Normally, however, I’m more interested in examining the customers’ faces and expressions. You have no idea how many fascinating things you can discover about a restaurant. And my conclusions are usually right on target.
That time, however, I was hungry as a wolf. I had in mind a nice dish of pappardelle alla lepre,23 and so I took the plunge and sat down at a table right beside the door … in case it turned out I had to run away without paying – that is, if the price was exorbitant or the cooking abysmal.
But, to continue, my blood froze when I realised I was the only customer! And, on top of that, it was one o’clock sharp! Unbelievable! But by this point I was already inside, and I couldn’t very well have got up and left, especially since the cook (who at that moment I took for the waiter) was approaching my table. I immediately noticed his cowboy-like swagger … He reminded me of Tex Willer,24 the comic-book character. I was expecting him to pull out his six-shooter at any moment, and I could even hear the music … Anyway, now he was right beside me, but all he pulled out was a pencil he’d been keeping behind his ear. Without saying a word, he put a piece of paper on the table and wrote: Table one, rabbit stew, and left. It was probably the only dish they had available that day. A bit disconcerted, I resigned myself,
knocking back a full glass of red wine, which, to tell you the truth, wasn’t all that bad. I heard the cowboy fussing about at the cooker, and a few minutes later he returned with a steaming plate in his hands. He had a strange smile that wasn’t a real smile, but a sort of ironic sneer. He went back into the kitchen, but I knew he would keep spying on me without ever changing his expression. Would you believe, Inspector, that that rabbit was the best I’ve eaten in all my life? After sucking every little bone and cleaning the plate with bread until it looked as if it had been washed, I went to the kitchen door and asked Tex for the recipe. It was only because I’d drunk almost a whole flask of wine that I had the courage to do this. He looked at me as if I was crazy, and so I had to insist. I told him I was a cook myself, and so I suggested we have an exchange: his rabbit recipe for one of my specialities (don’t ask me which, I don’t remember). Anyway, in the end he accepted. I ask you only not to give anyone the recipe, because I swore to keep it secret …
Bordelli of course would respect this oath, another secret to take with him to the grave …
This is not the classic apple tart, but a more ‘chic’ version, if that’s the right word. It’s the perfect conclusion to a romantic little dinner. The ideal accompaniment for the tart would be a lukewarm custard … It makes my mouth water just thinking about it! You must be very careful with the proportions. With puddings it’s best not to improvise; the results will be disastrous …
It wasn’t going to be a romantic little dinner, not in the usual sense of the term. No women. Just five men at the table, by the fire …
As expected, Piras was the first to show up. They shook hands in the doorway, and as soon as the young man entered the kitchen, he looked around for the dog.
‘He’s gone,’ said Bordelli.
‘How’d that happen?’
‘One morning he went out like every other morning, and he never came back.’
He remembered the sort of goodbye that Blisk had barked at him before leaving, and felt a twist in his gut.
‘I’m sorry …’
‘He chose his own path.’
To change the subject, he gestured with his eyes towards the table, which was set in grand fashion, with a brand new tablecloth, silver cutlery, crystal goblets, and a bottle of wine in the middle. Another five bottles were lined up on a shelf, ready for decapitation. The fire was lit, a big log of oak burning slowly between the andirons. The rest of the kitchen was in a state of chaos. Dirty pots and pans, wooden spoons, ladles, lettuce leaves on the floor, greasy dishtowels, bloodstained cutting boards …
‘Happy birthday, Inspector,’ said Piras, digging around in his pocket.
Against orders, he’d brought a present, a rather original one at that: a sheet of paper folded in four, with a report, handwritten in pen, of Monsignor Sercambi’s habits, from when they’d had him tailed during the investigation into the boy’s murder.
‘This might come in handy,’ he said allusively, as Bordelli scanned the page, pretending not to understand.
‘For what?’
‘You never know …’ the Sardinian muttered.
Bordelli had no need of those notes. He remembered everything quite well. Piras knew this. His birthday present was simply a way of broaching the subject. He snatched the page out of Bordelli’s hands and threw it into the fire.
‘Let’s enjoy the evening, Piras … I’d like to forget that I’ve just turned fifty-seven.’
‘Another three years and you’ll be officially retired.’
‘I’m already retired, Piras.’
‘I’m more likely to believe that pigs can fly, Inspector.’
‘I did all the cooking myself … Aren’t you surprised?’ Bordelli said to change the subject, and he started to sweep the floor cursorily.
‘You are one continuous surprise, Inspector,’ Piras said suggestively.
Bordelli ignored the provocation, set the broom aside, and started putting the kitchen in some sort of order, just so it didn’t look like a galley. Lifting the lid on the Peposo, he gave it a final stir and at that moment heard the sound of a scooter arriving outside. Botta came in carrying a case of champagne, as promised.
‘Don’t worry, I didn’t steal it,’ he said, winking at Bordelli. After greeting Piras he set the case down in a corner and went and put one bottle in the fridge. He, too, was surprised not to see the dog, and Bordelli explained that Blisk had departed.
‘Too bad, he was a great dog …’
‘It was his decision.’
‘Apparently he didn’t like the cooking.’
‘Shut up and eat first, Ennio. Only then can you say anything.’
‘I can hardly wait …’
‘That sounds like a threat.’
‘Oh, go on, I’m just really hungry,’ said Ennio, going over to the cooker to peek into the pots.
‘Monsignor Della Casa25 advises you not to speak of wanting food; it’s like talking about poo at the table,’ said Bordelli, noticing that Piras had screwed up his mouth at the sound of the word monsignor.
‘Who cares what some priest says? This is me talking here …’
‘Never mind, Ennio. Pour us some wine,’ said Bordelli, stirring the Peposo in a terracotta stewpot.
A rumbling motor outside announced Dante’s arrival on a magnificent red Moto Guzzi Falcone. Entering the house, he took off his goggles and helmet, releasing a burst of long white hair. For some strange reason Bordelli had expected him to come on foot.
‘I didn’t know you had a motorcycle,’ he said, shaking his hand.
‘I didn’t know I did, either,’ said Dante.
Bordelli couldn’t help but approve, and as he was about to close the door, he saw the lights of a car coming down the dirt road. A shiny black Fiat 1100 pulled up alongside the Beetle, the driver’s-side door opened like a coffin-lid, and out came Diotivede, as elegant as usual. He came towards Bordelli holding a rather large, cubical box, hastily wrapped and tied with red ribbon.
‘Happy birthday, caveman.’
‘I said no presents …’
‘You said it, not me.’
‘Bloody hell, Peppino …’
‘Wait before you thank me; you may not like it.’
‘I wouldn’t put it past you to give me a skull as a present …’
‘How’d you guess?’
‘We’ll open it when we drink the champagne,’ Bordelli said, smiling, and went and laid the box on the sideboard. There was another exchange of greetings with the new arrival, and Bordelli had to get another bottle from the shelf. Dante came up to him, holding a strange metal object in his hand.
‘The sacred moment for bequeathing you this jewel of science is upon us. It’s not a birthday present; I would have given it to you anyway.’
‘Lovely … What is it?’
‘A corkscrew, of course … Of my own invention …’ said Dante, handing him the gift.
‘How does it work?’ Bordelli asked aloud, turning the object round and round in his hand, trying to understand the mechanism.
‘It’s quite simple, really. Here, I’ll show you.’
Dante took the bottle from him and, manipulating the device, managed to pop the cork in seconds.
‘Fantastic …’ said Bordelli, sincerely surprised, eyeing the instrument. Dante’s inventions didn’t always make sense, at least not to normal people.
‘I have a confession to make,’ said Dante.
‘And what’s that?’
‘Actually I found this remarkable device at the open-air market at I Ciompi, but whoever designed it must certainly have been a past incarnation of mine,’ said Dante, laughing.
‘From now on it will be my only corkscrew,’ said Bordelli, immediately opening another bottle, for the thrill of it. He filled their glasses and they made a first toast. The atmosphere was warming up, and the four guests began talking loudly. After a last round of wine, Bordelli asked everyone please to sit down, and brought a large tray of crostini to the table …
‘I have to confess, Inspector, I hadn’t expected it,’ Botta said in admiration, tasting the incarnation of the apple tart made according to his gospel. Bordelli concealed his own satisfaction behind an ironic smile. He felt weightless. At that moment no thought of lost loves could darken his spirits.
His other tablemates were also, quite frankly, astonished, and they never stopped complimenting the chef throughout the meal. Perhaps it was thanks to the wine, which never stopped flowing. Now they were on the vin santo, and as usual Piras seemed the most sober of the lot. The empty bottles remained on the table, like ninepins waiting to be knocked down.
Dante was in one of his pensive moods, smoking his cigar in silence. He didn’t look uninvolved, however, but was observing the others and listening with great interest as Piras did his best to ignore the clouds of smoke enveloping him. The log of oak in the fireplace was still slowly burning … It was time to open the champagne.
Bordelli decided the time had come to open Diotivede’s present, and he went to get it. Sitting back down with the others, he untied the red ribbon and unwrapped the package. Lifting the lid to look inside the box, he smiled and shook his head.
‘So you weren’t joking …’
‘Obviously not,’ said the doctor.
‘Thank you, Peppino … Words fail me …’
‘Since you don’t read philosophy books, I brought you the most concise summary I could think of,’ said the doctor.
The others stared at the box, curious to know what was inside. At last Bordelli lowered his hands into the box and pulled out the present … A human skull, which he placed at the centre of the table.
‘Magnificent …’ Dante muttered with loving eyes.
There wasn’t much light in the room, and Botta leaned forward for a better look.