by Marco Vichi
‘Why did he bite them on the belly?’ Bordelli suddenly asked.
‘Somebody’d told him that some drunken SS men had set a German shepherd on Rebecca just before they sent her to the gas chamber, and he probably wanted to avenge that as well. He took it out on little girls who were not to blame for anything, exactly as the Nazis had done. The organisation felt it had to treat him like one of them …’
‘And so you had him hanged.’
Milena nodded, and then brushed a lock of hair away from her face.
‘I took care of it myself,’ she said.
‘Why you, of all people?’ Bordelli asked, sensing something. Milena turned round; her eyes were wet.
‘Rovigo was my mother’s second husband,’ she said.
‘Don’t leave,’ Bordelli said, staring at her.
‘I can’t do anything about it.’
‘Bloody hell, don’t leave,’ he said again, hands pressing hard into his pockets.
Milena just looked at him stubbornly and said nothing. She was shaking, as if fighting an indomitable remorse, but her eyes were dry again. She drew near to Bordelli and kissed him violently on the mouth, thrusting her tongue forward as if wanting to reach the back of his throat. Then she suddenly pulled away, took his head in her hands and bit his lip, hard, practically making him bleed.
‘I have to go now,’ she said, staring into his eyes from very close up. Bordelli opened his mouth to say something, but she shook her head as if telling him not to, and then caressed his mouth.
‘Did I hurt you?’ she asked, taking his face in her hands again. Her fingers were cold. Bordelli didn’t reply. He could feel the girl’s heart beating chaotically against his chest. He wanted to kiss her, but did nothing. He merely removed Milena’s hands calmly from his face and, without saying anything, headed for the door.
* * *
‘What are you brooding about, monkey?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You seem sad.’
‘I’m not’
‘You should be happy.’
‘I am happy.’
‘Liar. I know you too well.’
‘I’d rather not talk about it.’
‘All right, then, I’ll leave you in peace … Would you like a little of that cognac you brought me?’
Bordelli nodded and flopped down horizontally on the sofa. He’d hardly slept a wink the previous night, tossing and turning the whole time with a stupid pillow in his arms, and now he was unable to relax. Feeling something poking into his side, he dug into his pocket and found Casimiro’s little skeleton. He held it in his hand for a moment, sending a greeting in his mind to the poor little man.
Rosa sat down in front of him and poured some de Maricourt cognac into two snifters.
‘To the best policeman I know,’ she said.
‘How many do you know?’
‘Just you,’ she said, laughing.
‘What do you think of this cognac?’
‘Oh, it’s delicious,’ said Rosa.
That morning Bordelli had gone back to Karl Strüffen’s villa with Piras and, stripped down to their shirtsleeves, they had filled the Beetle with bottles. They didn’t leave a single one behind. As they were driving back down to the city, Piras had started voicing a barrage of questions he had about the murders, but it was clear he was doing it to provoke Bordelli. There were a number of things he was unable to tie together, the young man said, and other details where he hadn’t understood a bloody thing. It was as if he was missing a few important pieces to the puzzle …
‘Have you finished reading Simone’s story?’ Bordelli had asked him, pretending not to notice his agitation.
‘Of course.’
‘Did you like it?’
‘He writes well,’ Piras limited himself to saying, without even mentioning the coincidence between the story and the case of little girls. It was obvious he was on tenterhooks. He was dying to know everything about the murders, including that of the Nazi.
They had sat for a while without talking, and Bordelli had started humming a song by Modugno.21 In the end, Piras couldn’t hold back any longer.
‘I haven’t understood a damn thing about any of this, Inspector … But I have the feeling that everything is perfectly clear for you,’ he’d said decisively, seeing that Bordelli was still playing dumb. The inspector was unable to repress a mischievous smile, since he’d been expecting such a challenge for a long time. Someone like Piras couldn’t accept not knowing.
‘I’ll explain everything, Piras, but first you must swear you’ll never tell anyone.’
‘Of course I swear,’ said the Sardinian, drooling with curiosity.
Bordelli felt he could trust him. He’d lit a cigarette and, driving slowly along, told him everything he knew, leaving nothing out. He’d even told him about the White Dove, but without naming any names. Piras had listened to the whole story and hadn’t even complained about the smoke. When it was over, he’d shaken his head.
‘Shit, Inspector!’
‘It wasn’t easy …’
‘And the upshot is two killers who can’t be brought to trial.’
‘Well, not quite.’
‘Why not?’
‘I believe that a beautiful Sicilian girl has come out of this, too …’
‘What’s Sonia got to do with this?’ Piras said with a cocky grin on his lips.
‘If you ask me, you two have already had sex,’ Bordelli ventured in a rather wicked tone. He was bitter over Milena’s departure and felt like needling someone better off than him. Piras had given him a dirty look, a single, nasty stare, and shut himself up in the most nuragic of silences for the rest of the drive.
‘Come on, Piras, I was just kidding,’ Bordelli had said, trying to make up. But Piras needed time to work it off, and kept on wearing a long face. His silence was stony and arid, like his native land.
When at last they got to the station, the inspector had a couple of officers unload the bottles confiscated from the Third Reich, and they’d divvied them up, with everyone getting something or other. Bordelli immediately thought of bringing his share to Rosa’s, since it was a lot nicer drinking with her than sitting in front of the telly at home and filling his glass alone. Piras had disappeared for the rest of the day. No doubt he’d gone out again with Sonia, and Bordelli thought of him with a tinge of envy. A Sicilian and a Sardinian, an unpredictable combination …
Gideon was asleep, curled up in an armchair, sated with food and travel across the rooftops. Rosa was knitting away. That evening she, too, was rather quiet. She was still working on Bordelli’s sweater. She’d made a lot of progress, and every so often would measure it against his person.
Bordelli was thinking of Milena and felt his stomach tighten. He ought not to think of her, didn’t want to think of her. Closing his eyes, he let more distant memories carry him away … He found himself near Colle Isarco in April of ’45, just after the war had ended. He and what remained of his men had stopped a train on its way back to Germany, loaded with stolen goods. One wagon was chock-full of French cognac, and it had taken them several hours to unload it. There were forty of them, and they decided that each man was entitled to three cups of cognac a day: one in the morning for breakfast, one after lunch and the third in the evening. They finished all the bottles in a couple of weeks. It was one of Bordelli’s better memories of the war years.
‘You still haven’t told me your girlfriend’s name,’ Rosa said suddenly, still working her knitting needles.
‘She’s not my girlfriend any more,’ said Bordelli.
‘Poor boy … So she’s already dumped you?’
‘Would you give me a little more cognac?’
As Rosa refilled his glass, Gideon suddenly raised his head, as if he’d heard something. He jumped down from the armchair and went out on to the terrace, tail straight up in the air. It was the night of the new moon, a night as dark as Bordelli’s mood … Milena had come into his life like a pimple on his skin and ha
d vanished as quickly. But in the end it was better this way. Much better. Thirty years’ difference. It was too ridiculous. On the street, people would have taken him for her father, maybe even her grandfather … And anyway, it would never have lasted. She was too young, and so beautiful, so dark, with the eyes of a creature of the forest … What the hell was she doing with someone like him? Who knew what had initially attracted her?… He was just one of many, no doubt, between one White Dove assignment and the next. She’d come into town, slept with a police inspector, and left. What the hell could a girl of twenty-five know about things such as love?… But, when you came right down to it, he didn’t really believe in it all that much himself – in love, that is. He knocked back a mouthful of cognac and felt it burn in his stomach. Love didn’t really exist, he thought. It was only one way, like so many others, to hope that something would never end. An all-too-human delusion, he thought, but not a very intelligent one. Nobody truly loves, nobody really knows what the hell he’s talking about when he pronounces the bloody word. Much less a girl of twenty-five as beautiful as her, with coal-black eyes and raven hair, and a slightly roguish mouth that curled up ever so faintly on one side when she spoke … Come on, Inspector, thirty years’ difference! You’re already old and want to play the schoolboy … You’re ridiculous … No, it’s much better this way, better it should end immediately … Otherwise, one ends up dreaming … And he didn’t feel like dreaming any more. It was enough to have made love with that dream five or six times … He didn’t want anything else from her … It made no sense to love and dream … What the hell was the use? In the end you just die anyway, and nothing is left, not a goddam thing …
‘What did you say, Rosa?’
‘I didn’t say a thing, darling.’
‘I thought …’
‘What is it, love? Are you hearing voices?’ she said, giggling.
‘I think I’ll go home to bed. I’m a wreck.’
‘Aw, just wait a bit longer, I’ve almost finished the sweater. Look how lovely … Want to try it on?’ said Rosa, flourishing it in the air.
‘Another time,’ said Bordelli, getting up.
‘Bah … There are a lot of women in this world, Mr Sourpuss.’
‘I’m just a bit tired.’
‘Bah!’
They said goodbye at the door, and Bordelli lazily descended the stairs. He felt strange. He felt pissed off. Not only because of Milena, but because of everything. He got into his car and drove off. It was past three, and there was nobody about.
Instead of going home, he went to the police station. Only after he was already back in his office did he realise that someone had greeted him on the stairs, and he hadn’t replied. He leaned way back in the chair, whose springs were getting weaker by the day, and noticed that the wheels squeaked slightly. He would have to oil them. He lit a cigarette, knowing it wouldn’t be the last.
One way or another, the two murders had been solved. Another Nazi had been executed, a child-killer was underground, forever buried with his madness. It was all over. Over … At least until the mental balance of someone else started to tip.
As he crushed the fag-end in the ashtray, a big, sluggish fly landed on his wrist. It was fat and black, with hairy legs. The inspector held his hand still, so it wouldn’t fly away, and so he wouldn’t feel alone.
Acknowledgements
I thank my father, again. When I was a child, he used to tell us war stories after dinner, some of them amusing, some of them horrifying. But he always had a twinkle in his eye that made me think that it must be wonderful to fight in a war. I was so convinced of this that, whenever anyone asked me as a child what I wanted to do when I grew up, I would say: ‘Make war.’ I later understood that the gleam in my father’s eye was only from the joy of storytelling, of being still alive to tell of things that would otherwise have died with him. And perhaps the desire to write is nothing more than this. Even Botta’s recipe for pork chops with milk, fennel seeds and tomato sauce came from my father. Here it is:
Botta’s Pork Chops
Put the pork chops (preferably not too thick) in a frying pan with a bit of water and cook them well on both sides until the water has almost entirely evaporated. Add a cup of chopped tomatoes and turn the chops several times. Then add a cup of milk and a handful of fennel seeds, and when the sauce begins to boil, turn the heat down and leave uncovered to reduce the liquid until the sauce has reached the proper point of density. Then remove the pan from the burner, cover it and leave it in peace for a couple of minutes.
Thanks also to Véronique for having invented Inspector Bordelli’s name.
To Carlo Lucarelli for having saved me at the outline stage.
To Francesca and Enzo for their passionate medical advice.
To my editor Daniela, for having put up with me during proofs.
To Francesco for having pointed out to me a number of passages in need of revision and for having suggested the beautiful Sonia’s surname to me.
NOTES
by Stephen Sartarelli
1 – The Legge Merlin, a law named after Socialist MP Lina Merlin, was passed in 1959, outlawing organised prostitution, including brothels, while keeping prostitution – that is, the exchange of sexual services for money – technically legal. The effective upshot was to drive most prostitutes into the streets.
2 – See page 33 of the text.
3 – The Torre di Arnolfo is the crenellated spire of the Palazzo Vecchio (also called Palazzo della Signoria) in the central square of Florence. Traditionally attributed to Arnolfo di Cambio (c. 1240–c. 1300–10), it was built in 1299.
4 – ‘Marshal’ is a rank specific to the carabinieri in Italy.
5 – Rosolio is a cordial of spirits and sugar often flavoured with rose petals and/or orange blossoms and a variety of spices.
6 – Alkermes (also written Alchermes in Italian, from the Arabic al–qirmiz, for ‘cochineal’) is a sweet red liqueur flavoured with herbs and spices and now used principally in the preparation of pastries and for other cooking purposes.
7 – On 8 September 1943, the Armistice was signed between Italy and the Allied forces after the latter had successfully captured the southern half of the peninsula. This was followed by a German invasion and occupation of the north and the resuscitation of Mussolini and his lapsed regime in the puppet government called the Republic of Salò, headquartered in the small northern town of the same name.
8 – Sweet fried ricecakes typical of Tuscany.
9 – A suburban district of Florence.
10 – Celentano:‘Stay away from me’ (1962), a cover, with Italian lyrics, of the Gene McDaniels song ‘Tower of Strength’.
11 – A tributary of the Arno on the outskirts of Florence.
12 – Actually, the Normans did more than ‘pass through’ Sicily. They ruled it from the late eleventh century through the twelfth, and settled there in considerable numbers. The Kingdom of Sicily founded by them lasted, in various forms and sizes, until the early nineteenth century and was the oldest kingdom in Italy before the Unification.
13 – The Viali are the broad, late-nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century boulevards that encircle the ancient centre of Florence.
14 – An Italian sweet flavoured with hazelnuts and almonds and other essences.
15 – Nuragic: Of or pertaining to the nuraghe, the conical megaliths in central Sardinia, which have come to symbolise the island. ‘Nuragic’ thus can also mean, simply, ‘Sardinian’.
16 – A school of Italian painters active in Tuscany in the second half of the nineteenth century. Pre-dating the French Impressionists by a decade or two, they painted outdoors and broke up colour into little spots or macchie, hence the name macchiaioli.
17 – Cecco Angiolieri (1260–1312) was a medieval Italian poet from Siena.
18 – Ribollita is a classic Tuscan peasant soup consising, with some possibility of variation, of leftover bread, cannellini beans, carrots, onions, cabbage and chard.
19 – ‘Tu vuo’ fa’ l’americano’ (‘You like to pretend you’re American’) is a popular song from 1956 by Neapolitan singer Renato Carosone (1920–2001). It was sung by Sophia Loren in the 1960 film It Started in Naples, with Clark Gable looking on, and was more recently featured in the film The Talented Mr Ripley, sung by Fiorello.
20 – in zimino: A Tuscan sauce for fish and seafood made of leafy green vegetables, such as spinach or chard, garlic, onion, tomato, white wine and aromatic herbs.
21 – Domenico Modugno (1928–94) was a popular Italian singer, best known for his international hit song ‘Volare.’
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Marco Vichi
Translation copyright © 2012 by Stephan Sartarelli
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