The Art of Killing Well

by Marco Malvaldi

  Seeing that stew of so many different things, I found it hard to believe that the delicate and yet flavoursome dish I had been served two days earlier could emerge from such a hotchpotch; but I was prepared to wait and see. While we waited, I learned many things about Agatina and Teodoro. I learned that the two of them had been due to marry, and as a matter of some urgency, indeed, given that they had found themselves in that situation that often occurs when one is young and impatient.

  All these things the cook told me in that sad tone the common people often use to talk about matters of life, almost as if telling them in a heart-breaking manner ennobles them in some way; she told me, for example, that on the day of his passing Teodoro had been going around beating his chest with his hand and telling everyone that he had over his heart something that would change his life. When the poor fellow was found dead, over his heart he had a worn wallet, in which the only thing found was a portrait of Agatina.

  Now that I am writing, I realise that Agatina’s guilt, even though proved, torments me; almost as if, having seen that young beauty and having received her smiles and her confidences, I had become convinced that I had to be her protector in some way, unable as I was to be anything else for reasons of age. I suppose it is true that the older we get the more foolish we become and yet, without these instincts, it is likely that the human race would not have lasted as long as it has. The instinct for nutrition and the sexual instinct are necessary to us, since without them we wouldn’t last long: and yet they are thought of as vile subjects, and when we talk about them in drawing rooms there is the risk we will be considered depraved.

  Anyway, the time passed and the dish emerged: which, in spite of the ingredients that had seemed to me an unlikely patchwork, was just as I remembered it, and perhaps even better. I served myself just enough of it not to have stomach problems in the course of the night, and I wrapped a little of it to give to my furry friends, who are appreciating it greatly as I write.

  Well, tomorrow at last we will return to Florence, our good friend and sweet companion, and will leave this unfortunate affair behind us, these corpses and these rampant old maids; and I hope to read about murders only in books, and nothing more.

  Sunday night

  The rhythm of his steps on the pavement left no room for doubt.

  Gaddo was beside himself.

  Usually, Gaddo walked with slow, irregular steps, stopping often to think, to listen, to fantasise. Now, instead, he was almost marching, at a regular, quite rapid pace, with his feet sinking into the ground and making the paving stones grate beneath his soles.

  And to think that the evening had started well. The servant girl who had tried to kill his father had been arrested, partly due to his own intervention, or at least so he thought. And he had found the inspiration for a new poem as he lay between the ears of corn, trying to catch his breath, having frittered away his whole capital of oxygen in the thirty-six metres he had run after Agatina.

  Just as he was trying to regain his breath, Gaddo had found himself looking up at the sky.

  A clear, cloudless sky.

  A very high sky, without points of reference.

  A measureless sky, and yet so real.

  My God, what an idea.

  He and his brother had decided to give themselves a free evening in Bolgheri, and while Lapo went to his usual tavern, Gaddo had begun wandering the back alleys of the village, thinking about his new poem.

  A measureless sky. A sky so real. What else rhymes with real?

  Steel, of course. But the sky isn’t like steel. Never mind. Where the sky seems so real, and turquoise turns to steel … Not bad, eh? Yes, but it isn’t true. The higher you look in the sky, the clearer the sky is. What a bore, when poetry has to take reality into account. It would be so good otherwise.

  And, lost in his verses, he had continued to walk. Until, at a certain point, his heart (already sensitive on its own account and now overexcited by the new poem) had begun beating even louder. Because a few metres away, at the end of the alley, a majestic figure had appeared. A leonine head, a thick beard, a heavy, alert gait that everyone in these parts knew well.

  Giosue Carducci.

  Gaddo had almost frozen as the poet advanced slowly and majestically along the narrow alley, calmly looking about him. Furtively, Gaddo had let the imposing figure go by, wondering if he should greet him or not, if he should show him that he had recognised him or not, if it might not be best to come right out with it and say good evening, Senator, forgive my boldness but …

  But …

  What is he doing?

  While Gaddo stood there motionless, watching, the poet had stopped outside a door and studied it sternly for a few seconds. Then, having found it well suited, he had unbuttoned his trousers with some difficulty and begun calmly to empty his bladder, with his head up in the indifferent manner that characterises those accustomed to peeing in the open air.

  Gaddo had remained transfixed.

  After some ten seconds, the noble scion had approached the urinating poet and looked at him in astonishment.

  Carducci did not react in any way.

  At this point, Gaddo had exploded. “What on earth are you doing?” he had said, his voice trembling with anger and surprise.

  Completely undisturbed, the poet had uttered the following lines:

  My friend, can you not see what is before

  Your eyes? Why, I am peeing on a door.

  I pee where’er I wish and when it suits,

  I pee on flowerbeds and on the rocks.

  I pee on moneybags and on fresh shoots,

  I pee in Vatican realms whome’er it shocks;

  And if you linger there to brown me off

  I’ll pee right on your face as soon as cough.

  And, having finished this verse pronouncement, he had buttoned himself up and turned imperturbably on his heels, leaving poor Gaddo motionless and stunned.

  And so, when he had recovered, Gaddo had set off for home.

  Four kilometres on foot, but then anger is a fuel not to be underestimated. Anger at having made a complete fool of himself in front of his own idol. Anger at realising that, of the two, he was certainly not the one who had behaved badly, but rather that disgusting old man who had started peeing in a doorway without batting an eyelid, and yet he himself, the guiltless young man, was the one who had felt embarrassed.

  Anger, above all, at having discovered that his idol was, at bottom, a man like any other. And this anger, as happens with feelings to which we cannot give vent, had accumulated as he approached home, rising and swelling in expectation of a target on which to take it out.

  As we are in a novel, it would seem strange at this point if the poor disillusioned nobleman did not find an innocent element on which to pour out the above-mentioned anger. It will therefore come as no surprise to learn that, as soon as he got home, the first thing Gaddo did was to trip over the dog Briciola.

  “What’s going on?”

  “How should I know?”

  Sounds of running footsteps, canine growls, heavy breathing.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Oh my God, it isn’t thieves, is it?”

  Sudden silence, the sound of a plate breaking, a dog barking, a man’s voice saying something like “bloody animal”.

  “Cecilia, what’s going on?”

  “I don’t know, Nonna. It’s quite dark. Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s alright, Signorina. We need a candle.”

  No sooner said than done. From the room at the end of the corridor emerged a figure in a white nightshirt and a cotton cap with a pompom, holding a candlestick with a lighted candle, kept cautiously at a distance from his bushy beard.

  In the flickering light it was now possible to make out:

  a) Cecilia in a cotton nightdress and a dressing gown, barefoot and sleepy-eyed.

  b) Cosima Bonaiuti Ferro in what looked like a coat of chain mail, weighing about fifteen kilos, with matching cotton socks,
clearly bought from the spring–summer catalogue of the well-bred old maid.

  c) Signorina Barbarici dressed God knows how, because from the door of her room only her head and haggard neck were visible, like a postmodern tortoise.

  d) Pellegrino Artusi in a silk dressing gown and leather slippers in the Moorish style.

  While the doctor approached the rest of the company, the two adversaries, in other words, Gaddo and the dog Briciola, had come up the stairs. The dog, highly menacing in demeanour however small in bulk, was barking and growling and backing away from Gaddo, who bounced back a few centimetres with every bark because of the displacement of air.

  A candelabra in hand, shoeless, sweaty, hair dishevelled, and as angry as a pig in January, Gaddo was advancing inexorably towards the animal.

  “Oh, Gadduccio, what are you doing?”

  Surprised by the light and the number of people present, Gaddo looked at his aunt for a moment as if weighing up whether to change target, then threw the candelabra furiously on the floor.

  “What am I doing? I’m coming back to my own home, God Almighty, and the first thing I do is trip over this cur of yours, this poor excuse for a dog! No sooner have I got back on my feet when this beast bites my ankle!”

  “But you frightened the poor thing. He was asleep, and you stepped on him. Poor Briciola, what are these bad people doing to you? Bad, yes, Gaddo was really bad, come, Briciola, come …”

  And Signorina Cosima walked lovingly towards her pet, which was continuing to show its teeth and gums to Gaddo.

  Unfortunately, on coming out, Artusi had left open the door of his room, inside which were not just one but two cats, which, woken by all that commotion, had reacted in different ways. Timorous by nature, Sibillone had taken shelter under the bed, while Bianchino, being more enterprising, had come out into the corridor and had immediately identified the enemy.

  As the signorina approached, the cat swelled like a ball and started to puff, then, estimating that the enemy weighed less than it did and did not have sharp claws, launched its attack.

  The moments that followed were convulsive.

  In the middle of the corridor, the two animals formed a growling and miaowing ball of fur, while the onlookers watched powerless.

  As Artusi tried to call his own animal to order in Romagnol dialect, Signorina Bonaiuti Ferro went straight to the furry spheroid and tried to resolve the situation by kicking the cat, which was on top of the dog and brutalising it. But, as the signorina aimed the kick, the two animals reversed their positions, so that Signorina Cosima’s foot impacted with vigour against her own pet, bending it like a horseshoe and projecting it against the wall, which it hit with a yelp.

  Gaddo had stood there transfixed during this scene, but now he let out a strangled snort and began to laugh.

  After a moment, they all laughed.

  All of them, including Signorina Barbarici with her tortoise-like neck, Artusi with his military whiskers and the doctor with his solemn beard.

  All of them, except Signorina Cosima, who had turned, red in the face, to look at Artusi.

  “You … You …”

  “Forgive me, Signorina Cosima, but—”

  Signorina Cosima pointed at the cat, which was running back into his room. “You and your animals! It’s all your fault! And here was I, imagining that …”

  “Signorina, I’m speechless,” said Artusi laughing, “but you see—”

  “Don’t you dare come near me! And don’t you ever say another word to me, you savage, you disgusting fat man! I never want to see you or speak to you again, do you understand? Never! Briciola, come here, my darling …”

  Monday morning

  I have to find the right way to say it. And that isn’t at all easy.

  As he walked up and down the lawn, trying to prepare a speech that might seem both authoritative and courteous, Ispettore Artistico cursed the doctor.

  Everything had been going well up until a few hours earlier. He had the guilty party, he had the motive, he had an almost perfect theoretical reconstruction of the crime. He was ready to go back home, have that good long sleep he had been dreaming about for two days, and go to the Commissioner the following morning with all the paperwork in his hand. Crime, investigation, solution, arrest. He was not too worried about proof: the photograph showing Agatina as she aimed at the baron’s august back was more than enough.

  But unfortunately Ispettore Artistico had discovered for himself that very night (some years, in other words, before the birth of a child named Karl Popper) that a correctly constructed theory is a theory that can be falsified. It does not matter how many elements there are in its favour: all it takes is a single, simple, really stupid counter-example and the theory falls to pieces.

  The inspector was there at the billiard table, feeling quite clever, thinking over all the aspects of the affair as he played. The case had been solved. The baron, that crafty old dog, trifles with the housemaid (who could blame him?) and unwittingly conceives an illegitimate child. The noble gentleman can deny it as much as he wants, but that’s the long and the short of it. Having realised the gravity of the situation, the housemaid goes to the baron and asks for money. There is no way: the baron is already being measured by his tailor for new patches to his trousers, he is forced to deny money to his official sons, and now he has to give money to the housemaid? So the housemaid is sent packing – told in fact to go and do to herself what he has previously done to her. Agatina decides to take her revenge and do away with the baron. The first time, thanks to the designated victim’s stomachache and Teodoro’s greed, she misses her target in the most disastrous way possible. The second time, we all know about. Does that add up? Yes, it seems to me that it does.

  As the inspector was making the ivory ball bounce off the cushion, putting it in position for a strike that would send the ball against three cushions one after the other, the doctor had entered the room.

  “The baron is much better, it seems to me. His blood pressure had risen for a reason I cannot explain, given that he lost a fair amount of blood, but now everything appears to have gone back to normal.”

  “Well, I’m pleased. And what about us?”

  “I’ve brought you what you requested. My expert opinion, which is that the liquid in the glass found by the body contained the alkaloid known as atropine.”

  Couldn’t he be a little less pompous? He’s clearly the kind of person who’s determined to show us how many words he knows.

  The inspector smiled like someone who, after poisoning his mother-in-law, receives news that the old lady isn’t feeling well.

  “In the liquid contained in the bottle, on the other hand, I did not find the slightest trace either of this or any other alkaloid.”

  The ball hit by the inspector, after missing the yellow ball, described an elegant rhombus and ended in the hole.

  “Wait. Stop. In the bottle no, but in the glass yes?”

  “Precisely.”

  “And how can you be so sure?”

  “I added bismuth iodide and potassium to the solution after treating it appropriately, even though the wine, being acid by nature, did not require such a procedure. The liquid in the glass showed the formation of an orange-coloured precipitate, while …”

  Instead of giving scientific explanations, the doctor could have justified his statement by admitting that, once the absence of toxin in the port had been verified, he had also empirically verified the organoleptic properties of the wine by knocking back a couple of glasses with a nice piece of sweet cake, and all things considered was still alive. But Dottore Bertini was one of those who consider that science must be listened to and give credence, full stop, even when a perfectly vulgar example would not come amiss.

  “Spare me the scientific masturbation. Where did you get the idea for the iodide?”

  “But my dear Ispettore, it’s the procedure prescribed by Dragendorff in his treatise on forensic chemistry, Die gerichtlichchemische Ermittelung von Gif
ten”.

  Ispettore Artistico was ready to question anything that was said by the doctor, but being very sensitive to the principle of authority and profoundly Italian in spirit, he did not feel that he was in a position to challenge the dictates of a book written by a luminary with such a sonorous name, and in German to boot.

  “I understand.”

  And, unfortunately, it was true.

  Once the family had all gathered for breakfast (apart from the baron, who was still only so-so, the dowager baroness, who always had breakfast in bed, and Signorina Barbarici, who, since the baroness was still in bed, had gone to ground in the cellar with her beloved bottle of absinthe, given that benzodiazepines had not yet been invented), the inspector asked for permission to make a brief speech.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m truly sorry to have to inform you that you will have to bear my presence here for a little while longer.”

  What?

  “New details have emerged which make further investigation necessary.”

  “Ispettore, is this a joke?”

  “I never joke in the exercise of my duty, Signorino Lapo. I must therefore ask you and your guests to be available for—”

  “But this is outrageous! I shan’t allow you to keep these people hostage! You have done your work, you have browned all of us off, and now you want to continue? What is it, are you intending to work on the cook?”

  While Lapo was speaking, Gaddo kept his gaze fixed on his plate.

  “Signorino Lapo, I have asked you in the most civil manner possible to detain your guests. I could have done so with the full weight of my authority.”

  “Lapo, I think the inspector is right. Our duty—”

  “Shut up!”

  And Lapo accompanied this command, as he often did, with an open-handed slap on the back of his brother’s neck. This was where he made a mistake.

  “Ispettore!” he said, rising to his feet. “Following a criminal incident, we consented to accommodate you.”

  He made a mistake because sometimes even the weak and the cowardly, when they are humiliated in public and in front of people they respect, find the strength to react.