Death and the Olive Grove

by Marco Vichi

  Bordelli looked around; the place was sparkling clean.

  ‘Who keeps house for you?’ he asked.

  ‘I do everything myself. I’m used to getting by alone.’

  ‘Have you ever been married?’

  ‘My wife is dead,’ Rivalta said curtly, looking out the window.

  ‘Do you have any children?’ Bordelli asked. A wicked flash seemed to light up Rivalta’s eyes.

  ‘No,’ he said, glaring at the inspector.

  For a few seconds, no one spoke. In the silence, the rhythmical sound of the pendulum was clearly audible.

  ‘How did you spend the afternoon of the ninth?’ Bordelli resumed.

  ‘How much longer is this charade going to last?’ Rivalta asked, sighing calmly. He leaned forward and took a cigarette from a silver box lying on the crystal table without offering one to the others. Piras stared at him with hostility, clenching his jaw.

  ‘You can answer my questions now, or, if you prefer, we could take a little trip down to the police station. What will it be?’ said Bordelli.

  Rivalta calmly lit his cigarette with a gigantic chrome lighter, then blew the smoke up towards the ceiling.

  ‘Are you always so touchy, Inspector?’ he asked with a friendly smile.

  ‘Only when I’m hungry,’ said Bordelli.

  ‘The boy must be hungry, too,’ said Rivalta, casting an amused glance at Piras.

  The Sardinian kept on glaring at him with his nuragic face,15 immobile as a rock.

  ‘Answer the question: where were you on the afternoon of the ninth?’ asked Bordelli, fed up with his antics.

  ‘I was here at home. I spent the whole day rereading the poems of Hrotsvitha. They are magnificent,’ Rivalta said, smiling.

  ‘Is there anyone who can attest to that?’

  ‘The woodworms in the rafters. Ask them,’ said Rivalta, looking up towards the ceiling. Every so often his eyes contracted with disdain.

  ‘I see you like to ingratiate yourself with others,’ said Bordelli.

  ‘Life is a rather nasty affair, and for consolation I try to amuse myself as best I can,’ said Rivalta, snuffing out his half-smoked cigarette in a large red-glass ashtray.

  ‘Have you ever been to the park of Villa Ventaglio?’

  ‘I don’t even know where it is.’

  ‘Then I’ll tell you: in Via Aldini.’

  ‘I don’t know that street.’

  There was a creaking of mechanical gears, and at once the pendulum clock began ringing the hour. All three of them remained silent, counting the chimes resounding in the room as in a church. It was eight o’clock.

  ‘How did you lose your finger?’ Bordelli asked as the last chime continued to resonate in the air.

  ‘During the war. A piece of shrapnel,’ said Rivalta, wiggling his four remaining fingers in the air.

  ‘Why do you wear gloves in springtime?’ asked Piras.

  ‘Is that a serious question, Inspector?’ said Rivalta, ignoring the young Sardinian.

  ‘Fairly,’ said Bordelli.

  ‘Pretty soon you’ll be asking me how many times I went to the loo last Sunday …’

  ‘Possibly. In the meantime tell us why you wear gloves in springtime.’

  ‘Bad circulation. I often have cold hands,’ said Rivalta, half-closing his eyes as if bored.

  Bordelli pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Piras couldn’t stand all the smoke any longer.

  ‘That’ll be all for now, Dr Rivalta. But I would ask you not to leave the city until I say,’ said the inspector.

  ‘I hadn’t planned to go anywhere.’

  ‘I’m glad.’ Bordelli gestured to Piras and they all stood up.

  Rivalta accompanied them to the gate, walking in front of them without saying a word. As he opened it, he smiled coldly.

  ‘Pleased to have met you,’ he said in a clearly ironic tone.

  ‘I’d wait before saying that,’ said Bordelli, returning his smile.

  “‘Never call a man happy until you’ve seen him dead …” Who said that?’ asked Rivalta, searching his memory.

  ‘Seneca,’ said Piras, looking him straight in the eye.

  ‘Ah, well, I’m very impressed. It’s not often one meets a cultured policeman,’ said Rivalta, bowing slightly towards Piras.

  ‘We’ll be seeing you soon, Dr Rivalta,’ said Bordelli, leaving the garden without turning round. Piras followed him in silence.

  ‘It’ll be a pleasure, Inspector. Perhaps we’ll have a chance to talk about the Abbot Suger … or Mary of Aquitaine,’ Rivalta said loudly from behind the bars. He then closed the gate and walked back towards the house, whistling the theme of Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony.

  Once they were in the car, Piras gave vent to his feelings.

  ‘That prick really gets on my nerves,’ he said, staring through the window as if he wanted to shatter it with his gaze.

  ‘Don’t get upset, Piras.’

  Bordelli started up the car and they rolled at a snail’s pace up to the corner of Via Metastasio. He looked around, then did a U-turn and went back. Driving slowly past Rivalta’s gate, he took another good look at it. The garden lights were already out, and only one window on the first floor was illuminated.

  ‘I want two fully equipped vans to keep watch over this villa, Piras: one here in front, which can also keep an eye on Via Prati, and another in Via Metastasio, as well as three unmarked cars in the general neighbourhood, in radio communication with the vans. We mustn’t let Rivalta out of our sight for even a second, and when he goes out on foot he must be followed by continually different people. I want in-depth reports, down to the tiniest detail. And I want you to get down to work as soon as we get back to headquarters.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Piras, still pissed off, staring darkly at the street.

  ‘Organise long shifts. I want very little movement. Rivalta must remain completely unaware,’ said Bordelli, turning on to Via Senese.

  ‘What about the telephone, Inspector?’

  ‘Let’s have it tapped … though I don’t think it’ll be of any help.’

  ‘You look tired, monkey.’

  ‘It’s been a long day, Rosa.’

  The fifty-year-old girl had finished giving him a back massage and filling him with tartines. It was almost midnight. Bordelli lay on the couch with his shoes off, a glass of cognac resting on his chest. From time to time he raised his head and took a sip. As usual, he asked about Gideon.

  ‘He’s out on the rooftops, the little Don Juan,’ said Rosa, batting her eyelashes.

  They started making small talk, about past loves, old friends they’d lost track of, the war. Bordelli told how, in September 1943, he’d seen the battleship Roma sink to the bottom of the sea. Two very modern, radio-controlled German bombs struck the ship a few minutes apart. Less than half an hour later, the dreadnought broke in two like a nutshell and sank with over a thousand men aboard. Had he not seen it with his own eyes, he would not have believed it. It really seemed like the end … but then, little by little, the Germans were thrown out of Italy.

  Rosa, still working on her sweater for Bordelli, started talking about the time she used to ply her trade in little flophouses round the region. Sometimes funny things would happen, she said. Like the time a rich, fat Milanese gave her ten thousand lire just for massaging his ears.

  ‘You have no idea how disgusting it was – his ears were full of hair,’ she said, grimacing. Then there was that really skinny bloke with rabbit-teeth and sad eyes, who every Sunday at midnight would arrive at the house on his bicycle, just to bring her a bouquet of red roses. He wouldn’t say a word, just handed her the flowers and ran away. Looking out the window, she would see him pedalling hard.

  ‘You men are very strange sometimes,’ said Rosa, sniggering.

  ‘You women are too, I assure you.’

  They kept on drinking and talking for a while, as Rosa knitted away. Round about one o’clock Bordelli started yawning. Finishing his cogn
ac in a single gulp, he sat up and put on his shoes.

  ‘I think I’ll go home to bed,’ he said.

  ‘Ouf!’ huffed Rosa.

  She accompanied him to the door, and they stopped outside, on the landing. As usual, Bordelli kissed her hand. She seized him by the neck and starting kissing his face repeatedly.

  ‘Sweet dreams, monkey,’ she said.

  “Bye, Rosa, thanks for everything.’

  ‘My big sad bear … Come on, don’t make that face.’

  At that moment the other door on the landing opened slightly, and in the crack they could see an eye. Rosa huffed.

  ‘Do you need something, Signorina Camilla?’ she asked with an irritated smile. The door closed at once. Rosa detached herself crossly from Bordelli and went and knocked on Signorina Camilla’s door, but it remained closed.

  ‘Signorina Anichina, if you want to know what I’m up to, why don’t you ask me? That way I could tell you to mind your own business!’ said Rosa, knocking even harder. ‘I know you’re right there behind the door,’ she continued, her anger growing.

  At last the door opened, and Signorina Camilla Anichini appeared. She was about sixty, fat, and her forehead was covered with strange boils. She had the face of a power-hungry mother superior.

  ‘I heard a little noise,’ she said, looking offended. She was wearing a bonnet on her head and a light blue dressing gown covered with embroidery.

  ‘Don’t you ever sleep, Signorina Camilla?’ said Rosa.

  ‘I thought there might be burglars …’

  ‘Well, what a relief to know you’re standing guard for us!’

  The old woman took offence, eyes narrowing with rage.

  ‘Then make less noise when seeing your lovers off,’ she said in disgust, casting a nasty glance at Bordelli.

  ‘Oh, well, I’m sure you make less noise than I do, since you haven’t got any men to see off …’

  ‘Goodnight, Signorina Rosa!’ the mother superior said between clenched teeth, slamming the door.

  Rosa turned back towards Bordelli, shuddering.

  ‘The old shrew!’ she said. ‘She spends her life with her ears glued to the walls … Why don’t you have her arrested?’

  ‘Forget about it … She’s only a little curious.’

  ‘One of these days I’m going to give her such a slap!’ Rosa said in a loud voice, miming the gesture. Bordelli kissed her hands again to calm her down, then descended the stairs, followed, as usual, by a barrage of kisses.

  The stars were out and it wasn’t too cold. He realised he was agitated, and the thought of going home and getting into bed didn’t appeal to him at all. For a moment he was tempted to go back up to Rosa’s but decided against it, not wishing to trouble anyone with his bad mood. He got into his Beetle and drove off. Crossing the Arno, he passed by the church of Santo Spirito and, almost without realising it, found himself at Porta Romana. Like a robot he turned on to Via Senese and, after going a few hundred yards, turned right on to Via delle Campora. He drove slowly, head full of useless thoughts. He stuck an unlit cigarette in his mouth and turned round to look at VILLA SERENA. A number of windows on the first floor were lit up, and the inspector imagined Rivalta sitting in an armchair reading, or else cleaning the floors with a rag …

  He sighed. There was no point in driving down this road. He knew it. It was only a way to relieve the anxiety he felt while waiting for something to happen. The phoney telephone-company van with the policemen inside was in place. Rivalta was under surveillance day and night.

  When he got to the bottom of the street, he turned round. It was a very calm and quiet neighbourhood even during the day, and at night there wasn’t a soul about. He drove past the villa again at a snail’s pace and turned round once more to look at the lighted windows. Then he shook his head and accelerated. At the intersection with Via Senese he stopped and lit his cigarette. Turning left, he found himself at Porta Romana again, but instead of continuing straight down Via Romana on his way home, he turned right and took Viale di Poggio Imperiale. He simply didn’t feel like going to bed, since he knew he would only toss and turn between the sheets, unable to fall asleep. He needed some distraction, to rest his mind a little. When he reached the top of the hill, he turned right for no particular reason. Driving with no destination in mind relaxed him, especially on the roads outside the city. He started going up towards Pozzolatico, trying not to think of anything, but his head was still percolating.

  A few minutes later he was at Mezzomonte, where, he recalled, Dante Pedretti lived. Dante was a rather strange old man, a good six foot six inches tall, who spent his time fidgeting with inventions of his own that almost always proved useless. Bordelli had met him a year before, during his investigation into the murder of Pedretti’s sister. He had liked the old inventor and invited him to his place for one of Botta’s dinners. He hadn’t heard from him for several months.

  He stopped the car in a clearing and got out. It was past two o’clock, but he knew that Dante stayed up late. There was a bit of moonlight, and one could see fairly well. Heading down a grassy path, he passed through the gate, which was always open, crossed the untended garden, and went up to the large, turreted country house. The door, as usual, was not locked. He entered the house and went down the dark corridor, already smelling cigar smoke in the air. He descended the staircase leading down to Dante’s laboratory, an enormous room that spanned the entire foundation of the house, with a flooring of wooden planks and a huge table cluttered with everything imaginable. He pushed the door open and looked inside. Dante was at the far end of the room, a giant in his smock, his head surrounded by a mass of white, unkempt hair. He was pacing in front of his workbench with his hands in his pockets, staring into the void with the inevitable cigar in his mouth, enveloped in a cloud of yellow smoke. His shadow moved over the surface of the walls, multiplied by the light of many candles, and he was mumbling to himself.

  ‘May I?’ asked Bordelli, opening the door wide.

  ‘Greetings, Inspector,’ said Dante in his booming voice, without turning round.

  Bordelli came forward into the laboratory, walking past piles of old newspapers, broken chairs, bicycle wheels, big cardboard boxes with strange things sticking out. That chaos steeped in the past appealed to him, made him feel at home.

  When he was at last in front of Dante, they shook hands.

  ‘You recognised me at once’, said Bordelli, not too surprised. ‘You have a beautiful voice, Inspector.’

  ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’

  ‘Not at all. I was just thinking aloud a little. Sometimes it’s more effective than actually thinking … There are certain things that come out only when we speak, as if speech itself were a kind of corkscrew.’

  ‘But the wine that comes out isn’t always good,’ said the inspector, smiling bitterly.

  ‘Would you like a drop, Bordelli?’

  ‘Of grappa?’

  ‘Of grappa.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Now, where did I put it?’ Dante started scanning the apocalyptic disarray of his workbench with his eyes. He began picking up one bottle after another, all of them without labels. He would look at them against the light and then set them back down.

  ‘This must be it,’ he said to himself. He opened a bottle, sniffed it, then shook his head, frowning. He put it back in the pile and picked up a big two-litre bottle. He uncorked it, brought it to his nose, and smiled.

  ‘Found it,’ he said.

  Then he looked around again impatiently, puffing hard on his spent cigar. Now he had to find glasses. Bordelli meanwhile had gone and sat down on a dusty old sofa and lit a cigarette. Dante relit his cigar on a candle, and his face disappeared behind a dense cloud of smoke.

  ‘Damn, I can’t find the glasses … Would one of these do, Inspector?’ he asked, fanning away the smoke with his hand and holding up a chemist’s vial.

  ‘That depends,’ said Bordelli, looking worried.

  ‘
Don’t worry, I wash them very carefully,’ said Dante, and he filled two vials to the brim and passed one to his guest. Bordelli thanked him with a nod, then held the strange container up to the light. There were lines and numbers inscribed in the the glass: 10, 20, 30, and up to 50. Before drinking, he cautiously smelled the transparent liquid, which, until proved otherwise, could have been just about anything. He smiled. He would never have imagined that before he died he would drink grappa from a graduated vial. If he wanted, he could even keep track of how much alcohol he ingested.

  Dante, as usual, remained standing. One rarely saw him seated. He needed to be always in motion. He took a big puff of his cigar, downed a sip of grappa, then opened his mouth to let the smoke out.

  ‘You look tired, Bordelli,’ he said.

  ‘It must be the spring.’

  ‘Ah, the spring,’ said Dante, looking him in the eye. Then he shrugged and took another sip.

  ‘How are the inventions coming along?’ the inspector asked to change the subject. Dante smiled, shook the ash off his cigar, and emptied his vial in one gulp.

  ‘I’ve finally understood something, Inspector. All my fussing about with these bloody gadgets has only one purpose, to allow my brain to look past certain thoughts that I would never get beyond if I wasn’t concentrating on them. That’s the sole purpose. And they’re not even so special, these thoughts -actually, they’re rather banal and desultory. Sometimes they’re not really even thoughts. It’s all just a path I must travel, otherwise I’d never get anywhere, and it gives me a sense of well-being. Nothing more.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Bordelli.

  ‘Perhaps, but only to me. More grappa?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Dante refilled the vials and stood in front of Bordelli.

  ‘To return to the spring … I, too, read the newspapers, Inspector,’ he said in a tone that made it clear what he was referring to. Bordelli half-closed his eyes in resignation, and downed his grappa in a single draught. It was nice and strong.

  ‘I’d rather not talk about it,’ he mumbled. ‘Also because I wouldn’t know what to say.’ He lit another cigarette. At least Piras wasn’t there to inhale all the smoke.