Death In Florence

by Marco Vichi

  ‘Shall we go for a walk?’

  ‘I’d love to.’

  And they headed down the narrow, dimly lit road under a dark sky.

  ‘Do you like to walk?’ she asked.

  ‘I often go for long walks in the woods,’ Bordelli boasted.

  ‘It must be so quiet …’

  ‘Every now and then I need that.’

  ‘I’d already realised you have a bit of the bear in you,’ said Eleonora.

  Seconds later she let go of his arm, leaving him alone in the cold. They walked on for a bit, passing between high stone walls and large, silent villas. A little farther ahead there was a small, low wall outside an olive grove, and they stopped. She turned round to look at him, but said nothing. In the darkness Bordelli saw two tiny diamonds glitter in her jet-black eyes. He had to find the courage to kiss her. He had to take the plunge. What was happening to him? Had he forgotten he was a man? What was he waiting for to take her in his arms? If he didn’t kiss her in two seconds … But she took care of it herself in the end, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. She drew near and parted her lips. It was a delicate kiss, at first, but little by little it went deeper and deeper …

  He heard her breathing in the dark. She’d fallen asleep a short while before, her warm feet intertwined with his. The room was cold, but it felt good under the covers. It was no longer a fantasy. Eleonora was there beside him. He could smell her scent. They’d made love sweetly, violently, continuing to address each other in the polite form just for fun. After blowing out the candles, they’d amused themselves revealing what had been going through their heads at certain moments. Know what I thought the first time I saw you? And when I touched your knee under the table at the osteria? Is it true you were about to kiss me that time?

  ‘Today’s girls certainly move fast,’ he’d said. Barely half an hour had passed between the first kiss and the bed, the time it took to get to San Frediano and climb the stairs to his flat.

  ‘The world is changing. Haven’t you noticed?’

  ‘I have, but I can’t always keep up with it.’

  ‘Try to stay on top of it instead of following behind,’ she said in a sing-song voice, pulling the hair on his belly.

  ‘Who knows what your mother would say if she saw you now?’

  ‘She’d say I sleep with old men.’

  ‘How very kind …’

  ‘You’re the one who asked.’

  ‘It was a rhetorical question.’

  ‘Did you know that my mother is younger than you?’ she said.

  ‘Do you do it often?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Sleep with older men.’

  ‘Oh, no, are you now going to ask how many men I’ve been with and what I did with them?’

  ‘It’s the farthest thing from my mind.’

  ‘And what do you think? That I’m a tart?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Oh, thanks …’

  ‘You’re the one who asked.’

  ‘It was a rhetorical question,’ she’d said, laughing, and they’d started making love again in the dark …

  He got out of bed, moving slowly so as not to wake her. He groped around for his clothes on the floor and managed to take a blanket from the wardrobe, shivering with cold all the while. Grabbing the torch, he didn’t turn it on until he was out of the room. He went into the dining room and got dressed in a hurry, teeth chattering. He had to remember to buy a small gas heater. He lit two candles and sat down on the sofa to smoke a cigarette, wrapped in his blanket. Slowly he began to warm up. He felt good, perhaps too good, but he was also worried. At his age he would rather avoid particularly stinging defeats. He hoped he would know soon whether she was serious about him or only playing around. He didn’t want to be left high and dry. An old man’s concerns, these. He was well aware of that. She seemed not to worry herself too much about things. She probably didn’t need to. He had to be careful not to spoil everything with his apprehensions. He was probably better off not clinging too much or chasing wild illusions … What was he hoping for, anyway? For her to move in with him? Perhaps in an old country house with mice running about in the kitchen?

  He’d been away from her for just a few minutes, and already he felt like going back. He stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette and blew out the candles. He returned to the bedroom, hand shading the light of the torch, then turned it off and slipped under the covers with his clothes still on. Slowly he took his trousers off and let them slide down from the bed. Eleonora moved, making a slight moaning sound, and cuddled next to him without waking up. She was warm and smelled of youth.

  He lay awake, staring into the darkness, gently stroking her back. He didn’t feel like asking himself any more pointless questions. It made no sense. He should let whatever happened, happen. Actually he was quite curious to know how old Inspector Bordelli was going to deal with this one. He would force himself to live one day at a time, without tormenting himself. However it turned out, nothing would ever erase this night from his memory.

  Eleonora moved again and slowly turned away. He got closer to her and delicately pressed his chest against her back. The moment he closed his eyes he started thinking of the murdered boy, the killers, his new hope for the case. He could imagine what fun the men in the surveillance cars were having. Now patience alone would yield fruit, if there was any to be had. At moments he thought he was on the right track; he had a sort of feeling about it … Yes, they were the killers: Panerai, Beccaroni and Gattacci … Gattacci too? Really? At his age? But what could an elderly, cultured Fascist have in common with a butcher, assuming they knew each other? And a lawyer with an office in the centre of Florence, what kind of relationship did he have with Gattacci and Panerai? Were they really a clique? And, if so, was their common bond merely a devotion to the Duce? Or also a passion for young boys?

  SITUATION IN THE CITY WORSENING

  BARGELLINI’S DRAMATIC APPEAL SEND US MACHINES TO CLEAN FLORENCE

  He woke up gently and reached out for her. The bed was empty. For a moment he thought he’d dreamt the whole thing. He opened his eyes. It was day. Eleonora’s clothes were gone. The door was open, and he heard noises in the kitchen. He got up and put on his trousers. He tried hastily to arrange his hair and ran a hand over his unshaven face, then tiptoed towards the bathroom.

  ‘Ciao!’ she yelled from the kitchen.

  ‘You been up for long?’ he asked loudly.

  ‘Just a few minutes. I’m making coffee.’

  ‘I’ll be right there.’

  He rinsed his face in a hurry, brushed his teeth with mineral water, and combed his hair. Then he came out of the bathroom to meet his destiny. The pleasant aroma of coffee filled the kitchen. Eleonora was already dressed and had even put on her coat. Obviously she was as beautiful as the sun.

  ‘Did you sleep well, signorina?’

  ‘Not really, it felt like there was an ogre in the bed,’ she said, smiling. Bordelli came towards her with his hands in his pockets, repressing the desire to kiss her. He looked her in the eye.

  ‘Were you cold?’

  ‘The ogre made sure I was warm.’

  ‘Not all ogres are out to cause harm,’ said Bordelli.

  She smiled and went to shut off the burner under the boiling espresso pot.

  ‘What are you doing today?’ she asked, pouring the coffee into the cups.

  ‘Well, I’ll be going to the station now, but after that I don’t know.’

  ‘Will I see you again tonight?’

  ‘If you insist …’ he said. Eleonora took a step forward and kissed him.

  ‘You wouldn’t want to leave me alone with all those young students and soldiers …’

  ‘Never. I’d rather die.’

  ‘What time will you come by?’

  ‘Excuse me for just a second,’ said Bordelli.

  He went into the entrance hall and got an extra set of house keys from a drawer in the small table there. Returning to the
kitchen, he handed them to her. They were merely little pieces of metal with teeth, but at that moment they were charged with meaning. Eleonora was surprised. After a moment of hesitation, she took the keys and put them in her pocket without saying anything.

  They drank their coffee and went out. In the streets the people had already been at work for a while. The piles of debris hauled out of the buildings were getting taller and taller, and nobody was coming to take them away.

  Bordelli drove Eleonora to San Miniato to get her car and didn’t smoke along the way. Before saying goodbye they exchanged a long kiss. He watched her little Fiat drive away, and the moment it vanished round the corner his mood darkened. He felt alone again. Up until a second ago he would have sworn that she, too, was in love, but now he already no longer believed it. He got in his car and drove off, trying to think of other things.

  There were soldiers in the centre of town, lending people a hand, but there were still far too few of them. More importantly, they lacked the machines that the mayor had so loudly called for.

  At the station he went upstairs to his office with the day’s edition of La Nazione under his arm. On his desk he found the night’s reports on the three Fascists. Nothing of note. One had to be patient, though this was no guarantee of results. But for the moment, at least, the commissioner wouldn’t be on his back, busy as he was with the flood disaster.

  Bordelli lit a cigarette and went out again. He needed to throw himself back into the fray, if only so he wouldn’t have the time to torment himself with his usual doubts. After arriving at the stadium he left with a military convoy headed for the countryside around Lastra a Signa, where there was still a great deal to be done. He spent the whole day handing out provisions and never once felt tired.

  As they were headed back he suddenly buckled under the fatigue and leaned back against the side of the lorry. Eight-fifteen. He wouldn’t race straight to San Niccolò. It was better to leave the girl in peace a little … Or maybe he just wanted her to miss him.

  At the stadium he climbed out of the lorry, said goodbye to the soldiers and drove off in the 1100. He radioed headquarters: nothing new, as usual. He told them he would call again later and signed off. He hoped Cesare’s trattoria would be open, since the flood waters hadn’t reached it. Turning on to Viale Lavagnini, he felt relieved to see its window lit up. He really felt like chatting a little with Totò.

  Almost all the tables were taken, and a dense hum of voices filled the room. He exhanged a few words with Cesare, the usual stuff about mud and slime.

  ‘I’m going to see Totò.’

  ‘There isn’t much choice tonight.’

  ‘I’m fine with anything.’

  He waved goodbye to Cesare and slipped into the kitchen. Totò gave him an enthusiastic welcome, as if he hadn’t seen him for a year. He told him the flood waters had risen to six inches away from his flat, and he’d been stranded inside for an entire day.

  ‘And what about your Nina?’

  ‘Safe and sound. She’s at Serpiolle.’

  ‘So when are you getting married?’

  ‘You’ll have to be patient. It’s been barely a year … How hungry are you, Inspector?’

  ‘All I’ve had to eat all day was a panino.’

  ‘How does ribollita and osso buco sound?’

  ‘Sounds great …’

  ‘Just as well, since that’s all there is.’

  ‘I would’ve gobbled up even an onion.’

  A minute later he found a big pot of steaming ribollita in front of him, and as Totò spoke and he listened, he ate it all, with the help of several glasses of wine. He then set to work on the osso buco with its side dish of beans, feeling even hungrier than before. He had all the bread he could eat. The cook’s stream of words was flooding the kitchen. Bordelli limited himself to grunting, his desire to see Eleonora again growing all the while. When the cream pie arrived, he had trouble swallowing it, unlike the vin santo, which flowed nicely. As usual, he had eaten and drunk too much, and he swore that the next time … At ten o’clock he turned down a glass of grappa and stood up.

  ‘Just one little glass, Inspector.’

  ‘You’re trying to kill a dead man, Totò,’ said Bordelli, and he patted him on the shoulder by way of goodbye.

  He got into the 1100 and raced to San Niccolò. From a distance he scanned the group of flood victims talking and laughing round the fire, but she wasn’t there. Maybe she’d already gone to sleep with the elderly couple on the third floor, or to her parents’ house. Or maybe … He swept away the other hypotheses, pulling hard on his cigarette. What was this stupid mania for theorising, anyway? Did he always have to play police detective and look behind appearances? He was a fool not to have come earlier, nothing more.

  He felt restless and had no desire to go home. He thought he would take a hike up to Diotivede’s house and hoped he would be at home. Stopping in front of the doctor’s gate, he looked at the house, which stood about ten yards back from the street. There was light in the windows, and the pathologist’s black Fiat 1100 was parked in the garden. He rang the bell. After a good wait, the door opened, and the silhouette of a woman appeared against the light in the entrance hall. Tall, broad hips, long hair.

  ‘Who’s there?’ a beautiful voice called out.

  ‘Good evening, forgive me for coming so late. I was looking for Peppino, but it’s not important … I’ll come back another time.’

  ‘Who shall I say called?’

  ‘Franco.’

  ‘Wait just a minute.’

  The woman closed the door gently, and her shadow passed behind the curtains at the window. A good two minutes later, the door opened again, and the unmistakable form of Dr Diotivede appeared.

  ‘I hope you haven’t brought me a dead body,’ he said, seriously concerned.

  ‘I dropped by to have a little chat over a glass of wine, but I see you have company and I don’t want to—’

  ‘I’ve never denied a glass of wine to anyone,’ said the doctor, pressing the button to release the lock on the gate.

  ‘Your lady friend won’t mind the intrusion?’ Bordelli asked, remaining outside the gate.

  ‘I’m sure you’re just dying to meet her.’

  ‘I’m mostly curious to see what you’re like when you’re in love.’

  ‘As silly as everyone else, but not in front of witnesses.’

  ‘Such tenderness …’ said Bordelli, going into the garden.

  ‘I can only give you half an hour. I spent the whole day at the lab, and I have to be back there tomorrow at dawn.’

  ‘Are you working on the dead or the living?’

  ‘Still the dead, God willing,’ said the doctor, and he stood aside to let Bordelli in before closing the door.

  Bordelli had always felt comfortable in Diotivede’s house. It was sober, clean, and simply and tastefully furnished. A few antiques, a few beautiful paintings, valuable carpets, and here and there a Chinese vase or a bronze statuette. But the real masterpiece was the lighting, which was never harsh and yet able to make every nook, even the most neglected, seem welcoming.

  ‘I only ask that you don’t smoke,’ said Diotivede, heading down the hallway.

  ‘I wouldn’t dare.’

  Bordelli looked around in wonder. This was the sort of atmosphere he would like to create in the country house he dreamed of buying. He followed the doctor into the sitting room, and the girlfriend stood up from the sofa and smiled. Diotivede was right. She was beautiful. Refined, chestnut hair, dark eyes, the oval face of an actress and a lovely Junoesque body.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, I’m Marianna.’

  ‘Franco …’ He shook her hand.

  ‘I’ve heard a great deal about you.’

  ‘I can only imagine the nasty things Peppino says about me.’

  ‘On the contrary …’

  ‘Wine or grappa?’ Diotivede asked, approaching the drinks trolley.

  ‘Wine for me,’ said Marianna.


  ‘For me too,’ said Bordelli.

  They all sat down and got comfortable, sipping their red wine. Bordelli in an armchair and the two lovebirds on the sofa, thigh against thigh. They talked about how they had made it through the flood, what they’d seen and what they’d heard. Bordelli glanced over at Marianna often. The woman was a gift from heaven, especially for a man over seventy like Diotivede. She wasn’t just beautiful, but likeable and intelligent. She was wearing a skirt with a slit up the side, and when she crossed her legs, Bordelli had to make an effort not to look …

  He left the car in Viale Petrarca and continued on foot. It still wasn’t possible to park near home, as the wrecked cars and mountains of rubbish were still there.

  He’d stayed at Diotivede’s house until after midnight, drinking wine and chatting, above all trying not to look at Marianna’s legs.

  He reached his front door, lighting the way with his torch. As he climbed the stairs he imagined he would find Eleonora waiting for him in bed. She had the keys and could let herself in whenever she liked.

  He opened the door ever so slowly, peered through the crack, and saw only darkness. He headed down the corridor, holding his breath, and looked into the bedroom, lighting up the bed with the torch … It was empty. He’d been seriously hopeful, and now felt terribly let down, like when a promise is not kept.

  He was knackered. It had been a long, hard day. He brushed his teeth as best he could with half a glass of mineral water. Lighting a couple of candles on the bedside table, he got undressed and slipped under the covers, consoling himself with Herodotus. That was what he’d forgotten: to buy a little gas heater. With all the cold and damp he’d absorbed, it was a miracle he hadn’t got sick again. Perhaps the fever of a few days earlier had made him more resistant. Not against women, though …

  He woke up very early, and his first thought was of Eleonora. It was still dark outside. He dragged himself into the kitchen, legs aching. He made coffee by the light of the torch, as he used to do during the war … and in the penumbra he saw file past all his comrades who’d been blown up by mines, killed in battle, or torn to shreds by mortar shells. Who’d died to offset Mussolini’s infantile dreams of glory, of an Italy that would never come to be …