Death and the Olive Grove

by Marco Vichi

  Piras reappeared almost at once, got back in the car and made his usual disgusted face because of the smoke.

  ‘So?’ said Bordelli, crushing the butt in the ashtray.

  ‘Beltrami has a female employee, Inspector. Normally women are much more attentive to certain things than men.’

  The inspector shook his head.

  ‘I guess I was too tired to think of that,’ he said, embarrassed by his own lack of attention.

  ‘The woman is out on an errand, but she should be back in half an hour,’ said Piras, checking his watch. The inspector looked at him with satisfaction.

  ‘You drive, please,’ he said, getting out of the car.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Feel like a panino with prosciutto?’

  When they got to the San Niccolò quarter, they turned on to Via San Miniato, where until just a few years earlier there had been a public washhouse, where women used to slap their wet linens against the stone basins. Now the people went there only to get water from the fountains, probably the best in Florence.

  They drove past Porta San Miniato and stopped at a tavern that everyone called Fuori Porta, ‘Outside the Gate’. At that hour there were few clients. Bordelli knew the owner, the gigantic Leone, a former smuggler who had managed to get out in time and buy the tavern with the fruits of his labours. He hadn’t seen him for a good while, among other reasons because he knew that if he went to his establishment to drink, Leone wouldn’t allow him to pay.

  After exchanging a few slaps on the back with the inspector, Leone put three tumblers on the marble counter and filled them to the brim with red wine.

  ‘Have a taste of this, Inspector. It arrived yesterday from Tavernelle.’

  ‘You wouldn’t happen to have a glass of water, would you?’ said Piras, who didn’t want to get all muddled at a moment like that.

  ‘Wine strengthens the blood, water makes you weak in the knees,’ said Leone, appalled by the request, putting the glass of red in Piras’s hand.

  ‘To all the sons of bitches who wish us ill,’ he added in a low voice, barely raising the glass. All three took a swig together.

  ‘Nice and strong,’ said Bordelli.

  ‘Thirteen and a half,’ said Leone.

  ‘Could you also make us a couple of panini with prosciutto?’

  ‘Sit yourselves down and I’ll bring them to you straight away.’

  Bordelli pointed to a table and he and Piras went and sat down. Practically every inch of wall space in the tavern was covered with wine-flasks of every shape and form, and the whole place had a pleasant smell of pressed grapes.

  ‘My dad used to come here when he was young,’ said Bordelli, looking at the old photos hanging high on the wall over the door. Piras looked around absently, as if his mind was elsewhere. The inspector, too, withdrew into his thoughts, and they both remained silent until the panini with hand-cut prosciutto arrived and roused them from their reveries. Piras opened his up and started removing the fat. The inspector sunk his teeth confidently into his own, looking pained as he watched the Sardinian’s operation.

  ‘If I wasn’t so tired, I would have thought of it myself,’ he said, chewing.

  ‘What was that, Inspector?’

  ‘I said, it would have occurred to me, too … to question the saleswoman … but I’m too tired …’

  ‘It could happen to anyone,’ said Piras. He put his panino back together and started eating it. The inspector shrugged.

  ‘Anyway, talking to her may not lead to anything,’ he said, to ward off bad luck.

  ‘It’s worth trying,’ said Piras, taking a big gulp of wine.

  ‘How’s your father?’ said Bordelli, changing the subject.

  ‘I talked to him on Sunday, he’s fine. He’s planted the tomatoes and hot peppers.’

  ‘Give him my best.’

  Bordelli imagined Gavino Piras walking through his big, sun-drenched garden, cursing for having given one of his arms to the Germans and having only one left for planting and watering … Once, in ’44, Gavino overcooked the only spaghetti that Bordelli and his comrades had seen for at least six months. He claimed that was how they were prepared where he came from: overcooked and with little salt. Everyone else ate them with gusto. Bordelli was unable to; overcooked pasta was disgusting even on the front lines …

  Still thinking of that inedible spaghetti, he looked down and noticed a cut on the surface of the table that looked as if it had been made by a knife, and this set his memory going again … He remembered how, during the long night-time lulls, when awaiting orders from the rear lines, he and his men used to amuse themselves by playing a game. They would take turns putting a hand on the table, with fingers splayed out fan-like, while another was supposed to jab the tip of a knife in the spaces between the fingers, from the thumb to the little finger and back, with ever increasing speed and force. They were young and foolish, and often the wooden tabletop would become stained with blood. One time the bottom person was Gavino, and Bordelli nearly cut off his right index finger, from the same arm he would leave on the battlefield one year later.

  ‘Oh, shit. Sorry,’ Bordelli had said. Gavino hadn’t even so much as moaned and, looking at the wound, had only said: ‘You’re a lot better with a machine gun, commander.’

  Some time before that, in a rare moment of calm, they’d had a shooting contest with machine guns. Everyone had set his weapon to single fire, and the targets were the still-green walnuts hanging from a tree. The magazines had forty bullets in them, and every one of them had to be fired. Commander Bordelli won, hitting thirty-nine walnuts …

  ‘Eh?’ said the inspector.

  ‘We can go back to Beltrami’s now,’ Piras said for the second time.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  They emptied their glasses and stood up. Bordelli went up to the counter to pay.

  ‘It’s on Leone,’ said the ex-smuggler, wiping his hands on his apron.

  ‘If that’s the way it is, then I won’t come back.’

  ‘That’s why I do it, Inspector,’ said the gorilla, laughing.

  Bordelli put his wallet back in his pocket and waved goodbye to him. As they walked towards the car, Piras’s legs felt heavy and his head light.

  ‘You want to drive, Inspector?’ he asked.

  ‘But wine strengthens the blood,’ Bordelli said, laughing.

  They drove back to Via Roma, got out of the car and, as they approached Beltrami’s shop, they saw a dark-haired, barefoot girl in the display window arranging some new hats. She had her back to the street, but even so, she looked quite pretty. Bordelli threw away his cigarette butt, and they entered the shop together for a second time. When Beltrami saw the pair, he smiled exactly the same way he had done an hour earlier, and came up to them looking as if he knew exactly what they wanted.

  ‘Signorina Gisella is back. I haven’t told her anything, just as you asked,’ he said, looking at Piras with a reassuring expression.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Piras.

  The shopkeeper went towards the display window, stuck his head inside and whispered something to the girl. Gisella put down her hats, gave the two policemen a long look, then stepped down from her footstool and put her shoes back on.

  ‘Cute … but Sonia is prettier,’ Bordelli whispered without moving his lips. Piras gave him a nasty look but said nothing.

  Gisella came up to the two policemen looking a bit scared, with Beltrami at her side.

  ‘You wanted to talk to me?’ she said. She really was very pretty. She had a pouty, tenacious look about her, sparkling eyes and very natural movements, like an animal pup. The inspector shot a glance at Piras to tell him to ask the question himself. Piras was a little awkward – as he was whenever a pretty girl appeared before him – but he recovered quickly and coughed into his hand a couple of times before speaking.

  ‘Signorina Gisella, can you recall whether any of your clients is a gentleman who is missing a finger?’ he asked in the steadiest voice
he could muster up. He even raised a hand in the air and touched his little finger. The salesgirl didn’t have to think twice.

  ‘Of course, he’s one of our regular clients,’ she said.

  Bordelli felt a shiver down his spine, like a panther that has scented its prey. He really hadn’t been counting on this. He’d been careful not to get his hopes up, so as not to be too disappointed.

  ‘Who is he?’ he asked, butting in on Piras.

  ‘Dr Rivalta is his name … Davide Rivalta.’

  Beltrami gave a look of surprise.

  ‘Oh really? I hadn’t ever noticed,’ he said, a little embarrassed.

  Keen observer my arse, thought Piras, without taking his eyes off the girl.

  ‘Do you know where he lives?’ the inspector asked her.

  ‘In the Porta Romana area, I think.’

  ‘Are you absolutely certain he’s missing a finger?’

  ‘The little finger on his left hand,’ Gisella said with great self-assurance.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Bordelli. Giving a quick goodbye, he grabbed Piras by the arm and dragged him outside. As soon as they were in the Beetle, he slapped him on the thigh.

  ‘You see, Piras? I’m right to bring you along with me!’

  The Sardinian looked at him as if he felt offended.

  ‘What did Sonia have to do with any of this?’ he said very seriously.

  ‘That’s just the way we are around here. When somebody falls in love we like to rib him a little … Don’t you do that in Sardinia?’

  Piras made a stern face and merely stared at the road.

  ‘I’m not in love,’ he said.

  An hour later, after finding Davide Rivalta’s address in the phone book, Bordelli and Piras turned on to Via delle Campora, a narrow street that began at Via Senese and ran all the way to the Charterhouse of Galluzzo. They went about fifty yards and pulled up in front of number 24 bis. Rivalta lived in a two-storey nineteenth-century villa surrounded by a garden. On the somewhat neglected lawn were some large earthenware pots full of flowerless geraniums. The house stood about twenty yards from the road. Next to the wrought-iron gate was a porcelain plaque that said VILLA SERENA. The shutters were all closed. They nevertheless tried ringing the doorbell, but nobody answered. They rang a few more times, then gave up.

  ‘Damn!’ said Bordelli.

  ‘I agree,’ said Piras.

  They got back into the Beetle and returned to the police station. Bordelli was very tired, and the fluorescent lights in the corridors hurt his eyes.

  ‘When are we going back to Rivalta’s house, Inspector?’ Piras asked, biting his lips.

  ‘Stick around. I’ll come and get you when it’s time.’

  Bordelli went into his office and took advantage of the opportunity to phone the literature department. He asked for Professor Vannetti, who wasn’t in, and he was given the professor’s home phone number. He called him at once.

  ‘Professor Vannetti?’

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Inspector Bordelli. Sorry to bother you, but I need your help on a matter concerning Nazism.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’d rather not say it over the phone. When could we meet?’

  ‘Could you come here, to my place, tomorrow morning around ten?’

  ‘Perfect. Where do you live?’

  ‘Via San Zenobi, number 230.’

  ‘Thank you so much, Professor.’

  ‘See you tomorrow.’

  Impatient to find out whether Rivalta had returned, Bordelli tried phoning him at home. There was no reply, and he hung up. He stuck his hand in his jacket pocket to look for cigarettes and found Casimiro’s little skeleton instead. It was rather dirty and was missing a hand. He propped it against his pen-holder, thinking that this time the dwarf’s good-luck charm hadn’t worked. He saw the little corpse again in the suitcase and continued to feel guilty. Even if it meant upsetting the plans of the White Dove, he wanted to find out who had killed him. But he had to proceed carefully. If there really were ex-Nazis mixed up in this, then he had to handle the matter with kid gloves.

  He opened the window to get rid of the smoke. The sky was clear. He picked up the telephone and sent Mugnai to get a few Peronis from the bar across the street. He opened the first with his house keys and drank straight from the bottle, rocking the spring mechanism in the back of his chair. A sluggish fly walked slowly on the ceiling. A typewriter clattered in the room next door. Time stood still. The inspector snuffed out his cigarette butt and picked up Casimiro’s little skeleton again. It was funny. Its mouth was open, and the tiny red glass of its eyes sparkled in the light.

  Round about seven o’clock he tried phoning Rivalta again, and after the third ring, somebody picked up.

  ‘Yes, hello?’ It was a man, with a nasal, cultured voice.

  ‘Giacomo?’ said Bordelli, masking his voice.

  ‘Wrong number,’ said the man, hanging up.

  Bordelli put on his jacket and went to look for Piras. He found him in the radio room, reading Fantini’s short story.

  ‘I rang Rivalta again. There’s somebody there now,’ he said, sticking a cigarette between his lips. Piras grabbed his jacket on the run and they left. They got into the car and went up the Viali all the way to Porta Romana without saying a word. Then they took the Via Senese for a short distance and finally parked in Via delle Campora, in front of Rivalta’s villa. Piras was glad to get out of the smoke-filled car, muttering between his teeth about that stupid vice.

  ‘The windows were down, Piras.’

  ‘You can smell it just the same,’ said the Sardinian.

  The lights on the first floor of the villa were on. A black Lancia Flavia, sparkling clean, was parked in the garden. They rang the bell. A few moments later a window opened and a man appeared. Seeing the two men outside the gate, he closed the window. Seconds later the lights in the garden came on. The villa’s front door opened and a man came out. He was tall and thin, with very short black hair. The appearance fitted the description given them by Simone. The man walked towards the gate and stopped about a metre away. He had a long face and a big, hooked nose.

  ‘Yes?’ he said.

  ‘Are you Dr Rivalta?’ asked Bordelli.

  ‘Yes. Who are you?’

  The inspector recognised the nasal voice that had answered the telephone.

  ‘I’m Inspector Bordelli, he’s Piras. Could we come in for a moment?’ he asked, flashing his badge. Rivalta didn’t budge. He had his hands in his pockets, and it was impossible to see whether he was missing a finger.

  ‘Do you mind telling me what this is about?’ he said.

  ‘We just want to ask you a few questions. Would you please open the gate?’

  Rivalta didn’t answer. He had two very dark, deep eyes that shone with intelligence. At last he took a step forward and opened the gate.

  ‘I hope this won’t take up too much of my time,’ he said.

  ‘Just a few minutes,’ said the inspector.

  Rivalta turned and headed towards the villa, with the two intruders following behind. Both Bordelli and Piras instinctively looked at his left hand, saw only four fingers, and exchanged a glance. After they had entered the house, Rivalta led them into a large room full of bookcases and carpets, a large fireplace in pietra serena and a fine eighteenth-century pendulum clock. Four identical sofas formed a square around a small round crystal table cluttered with useless but expensive objects.

  ‘Please make yourselves comfortable,’ Rivalta said calmly, sitting down. The inspector and Piras settled into the sofa across from him. A few seconds of silence passed. Bordelli and Rivalta looked each other in the eye like two animals trying to establish which is the stronger.

  ‘Dr Rivalta, do you often go for walks in the Parco delle Casine?’ Bordelli asked, still staring at him.

  ‘Why, has it become a crime?’ replied Rivalta with a smile.

  Piras sighed with irritation. The man’s manner was
already getting on his nerves.

  ‘It depends on what one goes there for,’ said Bordelli.

  ‘I go there to walk, not to kill little girls.’

  ‘I see you’re already abreast of the situation.’

  ‘I read the newspapers,’ said Rivalta, looking away for a second.

  ‘At what time did you get to the park yesterday morning?’

  ‘I have the vague impression you consider me a suspect, Inspector … Or am I mistaken?’

  ‘Would you like to call a lawyer?’

  ‘I don’t need one, but if I’m suspected of something I’d like it to be clear.’

  Bordelli nodded.

  ‘Yesterday, you were at the scene of the crime shortly after the girl was killed, and I’m a policeman.’

  ‘I’ll forgive you for that, but nothing else,’ said Rivalta, crossing his legs with an untroubled air.

  ‘Thanks for being so understanding. Now answer my question.’

  ‘I got there about nine o’clock and strolled for about an hour. But I didn’t see or hear anything that might be relevant to your case,’ Rivalta said wearily.

  ‘What were you doing before that?’

  Rivalta joined his hands behind his head and sighed as though bored.

  ‘I woke up, took a shower, got dressed, went out in the car, bought the newspaper at the kiosk at Porta Romana, got back in my car and went and had breakfast like every other day. And then I went to the Parco delle Cascine … Would you like to know anything else?’ he asked in the tone of an obedient child.

  ‘What time did you leave the park?’ Bordelli asked calmly, ignoring the provocation.

  ‘As I said, about ten o’clock.’

  ‘And what did you do after your walk?’

  ‘I bought bread, some fruit, a steak, and then I went home. Thrilling, isn’t it?’

  Piras stared hard at the man, trying to figure out what he might be hiding behind his ironic, jaded expression.

  ‘What do you do for a living, Dr Rivalta?’ Bordelli continued.

  ‘I live on a private income and study the Middle Ages.’

  ‘Do you live alone?’

  “‘If you are alone, you shall be all your own; if you are in company, you shall be half your own,” a certain Leonardo once said.’