by Marco Vichi
‘But is it real?’
‘Of course,’ said Diotivede, almost offended. He would never have given a fake as a gift. Bordelli left the skull on the table, turning it towards the fire. Thanks to Diotivede, he had a new friend.
‘Do you know who it was?’ asked Bordelli.
‘A criminal. But I can’t say any more.’
‘How did you get your hands on it?’
‘You’re looking a gift horse in the mouth …’
‘Sorry …’
The champagne was excellent, and with the second round they emptied the bottle. Bordelli stood up to get a bottle of grappa and five small glasses, then sat back down. He lit a cigarette, his second of the day. He poured everyone some grappa, and taking advantage of a moment of silence, suggested that they each tell a story, as they’d done on other similar occasions …
‘Who goes first?’ asked Botta, pleased to volunteer. The fire popping in the hearth, the big kitchen immersed in shadow, all the hands clasping the little glasses, reminded him of certain evenings when he was a little boy, when he would listen in amazement to his grandfather telling stories of the Great War.
The oak log hissed, the flame tinting the five men’s faces red as the death’s-head sat quietly watching the fire.
‘Could I have a cigarette?’ asked Diotivede, who normally didn’t smoke. He lit it and blew the smoke upwards, looking pensive. He wasn’t one who liked to talk about his personal experiences, but the dinners at Bordelli’s were a sort of pleasant anomaly. The others looked at him, waiting for him to begin his story. The doctor remained silent for a few minutes, as if to put his thoughts in order, then grinned …
‘It must have been in ’52 or ’53; I was around sixty. I still had the smell of the war in my nose, and I paid close attention to the country’s excitement about the future. I was living in Via Masaccio at the time, in a penthouse apartment. A young engineer moved into the flat on the floor below with his wife and their beautiful little girl, called Cosetta. The first time I met the girl it was on the staircase, and she was with her mother. I stopped to introduce myself. The little girl was eight years old at the time. She had a dark complexion and the blackest hair I’d ever seen, and she was very quiet and always looking mysteriously out at the world with her dark, deep eyes. I was quite struck by her beauty, and by those eyes. Her gaze was like the moon, luminous and nocturnal … You’ll have to forgive me for all the second-rate poetic imagery, but I don’t know how else to describe her.’
‘I can see her in my mind …’ Ennio whispered, staring into space. Dante’s eyes were closed, and he was grinning faintly behind a cloud of smoke. Piras poured himself another grappa, quiet as a cat. Bordelli was the only one gazing at the skull. The doctor waited for a few seconds, to make sure he had the floor again.
‘I remember saying something nice to the girl, to be polite, and when I reached out to stroke her cheek, Cosetta stepped back. I felt rather bad about it, worse than I would have imagined. I immediately withdrew my hand and masked my embarrassment and disappointment behind a wizened smile. The mother noticed my unease and made excuses … Pay no mind, she’s very shy … At home, though, she’s quite the chatterbox … I bowed and took leave of the lady and went on my way, crushed by the little girl’s hostile rejection. I crossed paths with the mother and daughter numerous other times after that, but the little girl would never deign to look at me. Her mistrust hurt me; it was as if she had struck me from the lists of the living, and I promised myself I would win her over. I tried using smiles, making little jokes, even feigning indifference. But Cosetta was unreachable. One morning when I was feeling particularly bold, I tried again to stroke her cheek … and she stepped back like the first time, making me blush all over … That time, too, her mother noticed my embarrassment and had to stifle a laugh. She quickly said hello and kept going, pulling her daughter along by the arm. I just stood there like a fool, furious at myself. I felt naked, stupid, ridiculous. All the self-importance of the old doctor who spent his days cutting up corpses had been swept away by the eyes of a little girl, eight-year-old Cosetta. I felt like a complete nothing in front of her; it was as if the pure beauty of a freshly blossomed flower could not stand any contact with old age and ugliness. It was a painful, unbearable feeling. A few weeks later I decided to try again, one last time. Early that morning I waited on the landing until I heard them coming out of their door, and then I hurried down the stairs to catch up with them. After greeting her mother, I bent down towards the girl and put a chocolate in her pocket, then held out my hand to stroke her hair … She recoiled and shot me a glance that burned a hole through me. Was I really so horrific? So monstrous? And so, muttering goodbye, I ran away, and from that day on I avoided crossing paths with them. I would slow down on the stairs to avoid catching up with them, and when we were about to cross on the staircase, I would quietly tiptoe backwards. A year later the engineer’s family moved out, and by chance I found out they’d gone to live on the far bank of the Arno. I was unlikely ever to meet Cosetta, my tormentor, again. And so, little by little, I forgot about her and my humiliation … Until the day when, a couple of years ago, while walking through the centre of town, I saw her sitting at a café with a young man. It was her, there was no mistaking that. She’d turned into a beautiful young woman. She had the same deep, lunar eyes as before, and at that moment she was smiling. I’d never seen her smile before. I kept on walking, feeling confused, but after taking a few steps I stopped. I didn’t think I had it in me to do what what I had in mind, but I summoned the courage. So I turned back and went up to the table where the two young people were sitting.
‘“You’re Cosetta …” I said with a smile.
‘“How did you know my name?” she asked me, a little astonished. But she didn’t seem shocked. The lad looked on in silence, apparently amused.
‘“Don’t you rembember me? I used to live in Via Masaccio, on the top floor … When you were a little girl …”
‘“Oh, yes, I do remember … The man with the black bag …”
‘“Is that what you called me?”
‘“I must confess I was afraid of you …”
‘“You were? Why?”
‘“I don’t know … You looked like an ogre from a fairy tale …” she said, laughing.
‘“How are your parents?” I asked, to change the subject.
‘“They’re fine, thanks …”
‘“Please give them my best …”
‘“Of course.”
‘“Could I ask a favour of you, Cosetta?”
‘“Yes, of course …” she said, seeming curious.
‘“When you were a little girl, I tried several times to stroke your hair, but you always recoiled … Could I … now?” I felt like a madman, and I was sure she was going to tell me to go to hell or laugh in my face … But, instead, she said yes. The lad just watched us, wrinkling his brow. So I reached out and caressed her hair ever so lightly, as she looked at me with the sweetest of smiles. I muttered thanks and, after vaguely gesturing goodbye, I dashed away. As I was running off, I heard them burst out laughing and felt my face turn red and my ears burn. I had never felt so ridiculous in all my life … But I had, finally, succeeded in caressing her. I’d slain the monster, one of the many …’
The doctor downed his glass in one gulp and noticed that the others were silently expecting him to continue.
‘That’s it. I’m done. It may be a silly little story, but I enjoyed telling it,’ he said by way of conclusion, giving a slight shrug. Piras was silent, his dark Sardinian eyes glistening in the penumbra. Bordelli refilled the doctor’s glass.
‘I’m truly amazed,’ he said, in all sincerity.
‘At what?’
‘I didn’t realise you were so sensitive …’
‘It depends on the circumstances,’ said Diotivede.
‘You certainly never caressed my hair “ever so lightly”.’
‘I didn’t want to upset you …’
&nb
sp; ‘So, who’s turn is it now?’ Ennio asked impatiently, interrupting the skirmish.
‘I’m going last … Is that all right with you?’ said Bordelli, caressing the skull.
Dante was staring at the fire, a majestic smile on his face, pulling on his cigar, as Botta invited him to take the floor. The others supported the suggestion, and at last Dante stood up. He went and shook his ash into the fireplace, then turned to face the table, taking a big drag on his cigar.
‘I was about ten years old. The Spanish flu had just finished making its way around the world, killing more people than the war. Our family survived, but the scourge struck down some of our relatives, including a cousin of mine, a little girl of eight, whom I was forced to witness laid out in a little white coffin. My parents didn’t want their children to grow up unfamiliar with the hard facts of life, and I thank them for that. One night in August my mother woke my sister and me up with tears in her eyes and told us that Nonno Alfonso was feeling bad and about to leave this world. Nonno Alfonso was her father. It was Nonna Nerina who’d called, saying that Nonno was about to die and wanted to see us all. Mamma told us to wash our faces and comb our hair, and she dressed us as if we were going to school. My father was already waiting for us by the door, and we all went out of the house together and into the warm night. In summertime we lived in a villa at Radda in Chianti, and so we headed off for Florence in my father’s magnificent car, a Fiat 505 that emitted a great deal of smoke. My mother was whispering prayers, saying the rosary. She wanted to stop at the church of San Domenico, where we used to go to mass every Sunday before having lunch at our grandparents’ villa in Fiesole, and she ordered my father to wake up the priest, Don Camillo, who, aside from the name, was nothing like the Guareschi character. He was skinny, old, always serious, and seemed always to be wandering through the sins of the world in search of his own holiness. My father didn’t want to disturb him, adding that it was better that we get to Nonno’s place as quickly as possible, because he might leave the world of the living at any moment. But my mother wasn’t in any mood for argument. In the end my father obeyed, and after knocking for a long time, he found the sacristan in front of him in his pyjamas. He apologised, explained the situation, and asked whether Don Camillo might be so kind as to accompany them to the dying man’s bedside. But they had to move fast, very fast. A few minutes later we saw the priest come out, sleepy eyed and unsteady on his feet. In his hand was a small briefcase with the holy oil. My mother got out of the car to greet him, thanking him with all her heart, and gave him her place beside the driver. The priest got in the car, smelling strongly of candles and mildew, and before long we arrived at our grandparents’ house. The old housekeeper was waiting for us, sobbing in the doorway, pressing a handkerchief to her eyes. She said the signora was waiting for us at the master’s bedside. We went up the stairs together with the priest, in silence. When we came to my grandfather’s bedroom, we found the door closed with a piece of cardboard on it, hanging from a string, with a message on it, written in his hand, which I’ve kept all these years. We later learned that it was his wife, on his orders, who’d hung it there. Every so often I reread it, just to amuse myself, and by now I know its contents by heart.
By my wish and command
THE PRIEST BEGONE
I will die with God. He alone is quite enough for me. He who can create worlds will find a way to forgive my sins, while you, hypocrite priest, lying impostor, and worse, you should stay home. He needs no middlemen. Your prayers are self-interested prayers that come from no deeper than the lips, while my prayers come straight from the heart. Forgive me, Lord. This you can do, because you are all powerful.
Don Camillo turned pale and bit his lips, while my mother felt herself withering with embarrassment. Neither of the two had even noticed that in the lower right corner of the sheet was the word: Over. And so my father turned it over.
I am dying.
My beliefs to all were known.
Come, O Death, I feel you near, and fear you not,
I go serene to the unknown.
When the priest headed down the stairs muttering between his teeth, my mother burst into tears and ran after him, begging him to stay, but Don Camillo was offended and wouldn’t hear of it. My mother kept insisting, to no avail. My father, my sister and I watched the scene from the top of the stairs, not knowing what to do. The upshot was that Nonno Alfonso got to die the way he wanted, without a priest and with a crucifix in his hands. He said goodbye to us one by one, calling us each by his name, and after breathing his last, his eyes remained wide open. I remember well those lifeless eyes; it looked as if he was thinking of something funny. He’d always been a jokester, and remained true to himself even in death. A few days later, when we all went to the notary to discuss the will, we learned that in it, in addition to allotting his possessions, he’d left a note containing what he wanted for his epitaph: Pray for yourselves. I am already dead.’
Dante laughed, and after tossing his cigar butt into the fire, he sat back down at his place. Botta raised his glass and proposed a toast to Nonno Alfonso, who must certainly be watching them from the beyond. They clinked glasses, and after taking a sip, Dante revealed to everyone that he, too, had already written his own epitaph: Here lies Dante, who devoted his life to not knowing anything.
Ennio was not to be outdone.
‘I want mine to say: Burglars and con men/are all fine gentlemen. And after my funeral I want there to be a sumptuous banquet, paid for by me, where everyone should stuff themselves like pigs and get drunk,’ he said, to the others’ approval.
‘Peppino, what do you want want for an epitaph?’ Bordelli asked the doctor. By this point the game had begun, and each had to say his bit. Diotivede thought it over for a moment.
‘The scalpel was powerless against the sickle,’ he said, smiling coldly. Bordelli turned to Piras.
‘How about you?’
‘I’ve never given it any thought,’ said Piras, who was barely more than twenty years old. Ennio then passed the question on to Bordelli, who finally thought he’d found the right statement.
‘He loved women above all else.’
‘You’re such a romantic,’ said Diotivede.
‘It depends on the circumstances,’ Bordelli retorted, looking over at the skull.
They all sat there in silence, while the wind outside could be heard tossing the boughs of the trees. The log burned slowly in the fireplace, enveloped by a thin veil of fire. All that was missing was a howling wolf in the distance …
‘Your turn, Ennio,’ said Bordelli, calmly lighting another cigarette.
The night was still young and seemed made for telling stories. Botta put his elbows on the table and, heaving a sigh, started talking …
‘Nowadays I don’t do this kind of thing any more – the inspector knows that … But once upon a time I used to break into villas and steal a few things. I did it to get by, and there are even some priests who say that to steal out of hunger is not a sin. If only there was a little more justice in the world … But let’s forget about that – sometimes, when we talk about certain things, all that comes out is hot air. Anyway, one night, many years ago, in winter, I broke into a villa in Pian dei Giullari, where a party seemed to be going on. There were several fancy cars parked outside, the most modest one being a Mercedes as long as a train. When the rich throw a party, they drink like fish, especially in the wee hours after the servants have all been dismissed to their quarters. In other words, it becomes very easy to steal. I’d climbed up a big wisteria plant and came in through a first-floor window … I went out into the hallway and looked down into the staircase. I pricked up my ears, but couldn’t hear anything. Before rifling through any drawers it’s usually a good idea to figure out what’s happening in the house. So I tiptoed down the stairs with the help of my torch, to go and listen at the various doors. It was an enormous villa, full of corridors and dimly lit by a few weak hall-lights. I remember seeing scary portraits hanging on
the walls in the shadows. I made my way along the carpets, making as little noise as possible. You could have heard a pin drop. After peering through the keyholes of a number of doors, I found the right one … and I couldn’t believe my eyes. There, in a dim salon illuminated by the light of a single candle, I saw about fifteen people seated at a large round table. They all had their eyes closed and their hands open and resting on a dark tablecloth, pinkies linked to form a chain …’
Botta paused to take a sip of grappa, and nobody breathed a word …
‘In short, it was a séance. I could steal whatever I wanted without anyone knowing, but I was unable to take my eye off that keyhole. I was too curious to know what would happen next. I’d never seen anything like it with my own eyes, though my uncle Rolando, who said he’d taken part in many séances, used to tell me about them and said some things that were pretty hard to believe … Drawers opening by themselves, doors slamming, cold gusts of wind, even ghosts appearing in a corner of the room and answering questions … My uncle swore it was all true, and so now I had a chance to witness one of these miracles myself. I wasn’t going to miss the show for anything, even though I felt a little nervous. Actually, I was really afraid, I have to admit, but my curiosity wouldn’t let me go. The table was pretty far from the door, and so, to get a better look, I opened it slightly. The hallway was almost completely dark, so nobody could see me. And, anyway, they all had their eyes closed. I was struck by the presence of a rather thin lady, with black, sort of ruffled hair, who was sitting bolt upright and seemed to be muttering something. She must have been the one my uncle called the medium, the person who established contact with the spirit world, who “goes into a trance”, as he put it. Everyone else sat there in silence without moving. The minutes went by, but nothing happened. Every so often the medium would seem to grow impatient, as if she felt frustrated and unable to communicate with the world of the dead … I was starting to think it was all nonsense and that my uncle had been pulling my leg. I even got the idea I would come forward and pretend I was a ghost, just to make them all happy. I was thinking I could say – in my best ghostly voice – that if they wanted to save their souls they had to give me all the gold they had on their persons … I was laughing inside, imagining the scene … But then I suddenly heard a noise behind me, and I turned round and my hair stood on end. In the shadows I saw a little girl in a nightgown coming down the stairs, and so I hid behind a piece of furniture and watched her. The girl headed straight for the séance room, walking slowly but with determination. I realised she had her eyes closed. She looked like she was sleeping. She was a very pretty little girl, about five or six years old, with long, curly blond hair. She looked like a cherub, but she had a string of spittle hanging from her lips, which were half open. Without a sound she pushed open the door and went into the deathly silent room. The curiosity was eating me alive, so I came out from my hiding place and went to spy on the scene. The little girl had stopped a few steps away from the table, but everyone seated at the table had their eyes closed and nobody was aware of her presence yet. A few seconds later the child raised her arm and pointed at one of them.