by Marco Vichi
‘What can I get you, Inspector?’
‘Nothing, thank you, I’ve just had some coffee.’
Before going inside, the psychoanalyst took off his dirtcovered boots, and they went and sat down in the living room in front of the closed glass door. At a distance of about ten yards from the house was an iron pagoda, overwhelmed by an age-old wisteria that was completely bare at that time of year. In the middle of the pagoda was a round marble table with four wrought-iron chairs around it. Bordelli had taken tea there several times.
Fabiani looked expectantly at the inspector without saying anything. His face was as small as a child’s and covered with very fine wrinkles. Bordelli reached into his pocket and took out the photo of Fabiani’s house and a stack of promissory notes, held together with a clip, and laid them down on the table. Fabiani adjusted his glasses on his nose, took the notes, looked at them, then set them back down without saying a word. He looked again at Bordelli, as though waiting for him to speak. The inspector put a cigarette between his lips but didn’t light it.
‘As you’ve probably read in the papers, Badalamenti was killed,’ he said.
Fabiani took his glasses off and ran a hand over his head to tame his unruly white hair.
‘I imagine you were surprised about me, Inspector,’ he said, smiling faintly.
‘Well …’
‘You wouldn’t have expected it, would you?’
‘I’m sorry, Dr Fabiani – you don’t have to tell me anything,’ Bordelli said, feeling awkward. He then rose to his feet, to leave the doctor to his thoughts. He didn’t want to give the impression he had come there expecting an explanation.
‘Are you in such a hurry?’ the old man asked in a sad tone.
‘I just didn’t want to attach too much importance to the matter.’
‘You act as if I should be ashamed.’
‘You’re wrong …’
‘Inspector, do you know exactly what the work of a psychoanalyst involves?’ asked Fabiani, gesturing for him to sit back down.
‘I’d like to say yes, but I’d probably be wrong,’ Bordelli replied, obediently sitting down.
‘Do you feel like listening to a rather sad story?’
‘Only if you feel like telling me one.’
Fabiani remained silent for a moment, then began to speak calmly.
‘In two words, the psychoanalyst has to bring into contact, so to speak, the different levels of the patient’s inner life, which for some obscure reason remain divided or are even at war with one another.’
‘What exactly do you mean by “levels”?’
‘Or the different planes, if you prefer – that is, emotion, sentiment, reason, and so on. Some individuals experience tremendous inner conflict precisely because of this disharmony. What can happen is that reason will condemn the emotion, and thus the sentiment is broken in two, or else for some unknown reason these three levels live separately from one another out of mutual fear. There might be a whole range of causes: mistaken ideals, groundless fears, traumatic experiences, or a thousand other reasons related to the personal life of whoever is in that unpleasant condition. And that’s where the psychoanalyst comes in. With the patient’s help, which is absolutely essential, he will try to liberate him or her from the invisible illness that prevents him from living in peace. He will try to re-establish a certain harmony inside him. Even though, in the final analysis, it’s an adventure in which both doctor and patient run a certain risk. This must never be forgotten.’
‘It seems to me a fine profession,’ said Bordelli.
‘It’s wonderful, even though it’s based on entirely hypothetical assumptions. You’re forced to proceed by trial and error, pretty much in total darkness. It requires a great deal of sensitivity, even delicacy. But tremendous detachment above all … Because it’s perfectly normal, and beautiful, to grow fond of people; it happens to everyone. But it must never happen to a psychoanalyst … Vis-à-vis his patients, that is. Otherwise he risks contaminating the therapy with personal feelings and problems. It’s even possible that the doctor will live out his own conflicts through the patient, and when that happens …’
The old man shrugged and shook his head, smiling with resignation.
‘And when that happens?’ Bordelli asked, curious.
‘When it happens, things can go very badly. Do you remember when I told you some time ago that I had stopped practising because of a sort of work-related accident?’
Bordelli nodded. He had a strong hankering for a cigarette but decided to resist. Fabiani got up, went towards the glass door, and started looking outside. The sun was out, and a few blackbirds were hopping about on the lawn in search of worms.
‘I won’t tell you the whole story, because it involves other people as well, and that wouldn’t be right. I’ll only say that I made a very serious, professionally unacceptable mistake, which had very painful consequences.’ Bordelli finally lit his cigarette, eyes focused on the back of Fabiani’s neck, and inhaled deeply. He would forgo the next one, but this one he wanted to smoke. The old psychoanalyst looked very thin, his smock draped over his body like a rag hung from a nail. He kept on looking outside, hands resting lightly on the glass door.
‘I’m not guilty by any law, of course, but I can’t escape my own judgement. It’s true that there’s a limit to the responsibility one can have for the life of another, and this is exactly what psychoanalysis teaches … That everyone is fundamentally responsible for his own life, especially the inner life. But after that horrible episode I had nevertheless decided to stop practising, as you know. I was afraid I might make the same mistake again, and I didn’t want to take that chance.’
The glass in front of Fabiani’s mouth had fogged up, making a white spot which the doctor quickly erased with a sweep of the forearm.
‘When did it happen?’
‘About ten years ago. I took as long as I needed to set my former patients up with some colleagues of mine, then closed my office. I was already getting on in years, and it wasn’t easy to change jobs. After trying unsuccessfully for a few months to find something, I started to get discouraged. I did do some odd jobs for publishers and wrote a few articles for a magazine, but it was never enough to live on. I have no family, no close relatives, but luckily I wasn’t poor. I had a few valuable possessions … furniture, paintings, objects … Now and then I would sell something, though, truth be told, I never got much in return, since I’m not very good at that sort of thing. Little by little, my savings ran out. I must say I got scared. I wasn’t used to counting my spare change to buy food. I was still trying to find something more stable, and finally things changed. I managed to find a job as a consultant, and I still give seminars at the University of Pisa. Come January I may even have a job at the courts. And I’m actually thinking of resuming practice, though starting with only two or three patients. All these things are very well remunerated, but since they’re sporadic, so are the payments. I’ve had some big expenses with the house, and I must say that my dentist’s bills have been considerable as well …And so I thought that a small loan might help me catch up with these things. I would have all the time in the world to pay the money back. So I went to my bank, but the only way I could get a loan would have been to mortgage the house, and I didn’t want to do that. This house is all I have left. I spent many happy years here with my wife, and I would like to die here. But I urgently needed some money, and so …’
‘You turned to Badalamenti.’
‘And I would even have managed to pay the gentleman back, albeit with some difficulty.’ Fabiani hadn’t said a single word condemning the usurer.
‘How did you know about him?’ Bordelli asked.
‘A clerk at the bank gave me his name.’
‘Nice favour.’
‘He told me that if the bank couldn’t satisfy my needs, he knew a gentleman from whom I could obtain a loan without much trouble.’
‘Who exactly was it that gave you this advice?’ Bordelli
asked, feeling a strong desire to drop in at that bank.
‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but I’d rather not say. It’s water under the bridge.’
‘As you wish.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Forgive me for changing the subject, Doctor, but might I ask what you’re doing for Christmas?’
‘Normally I go for a walk in the morning, all the way to Fiesole, and then I return. As long as it’s not raining, of course.’
‘Would you like to come to dinner at my place on Christmas Eve? It’ll all be people you know … though Piras, the Sardinian lad, won’t be there.’
Fabiano looked at him with the hint of a smile on his lips.
‘Let me think about it. But thank you,’ he said. Bordelli stood up to leave.
‘If you decide to come, give me a ring,’ he said.
‘I’ll call anyway to wish you a good Christmas.’
‘Ah, I almost forgot. Is this yours, by any chance?’ Bordelli pulled out the same ring he’d been showing to everyone, the one with the name Ciro inscribed inside, and held it between his fingers. Fabiano looked at it.
‘Never seen it before. Why do you ask?’
‘Nothing important. I’ll let you get back to your roses, Dr Fabiani.’
Benigno’s coffin was sealed at ten o’clock, and four men carried it out of the Setzus’ home. Friends and relatives waited out in the street, silent and dressed in black under a blanket of dark clouds. The coffin was lowered and then slid on to the open flatbed of a light truck, which drove off at once. The small gathering of people then headed off to the Corso, walking slowly. Piras hopped along on his crutches beside Ettore and Angelo, who had skipped work to attend the funeral. The wind was blowing from the south, bringing with it not only an increase in temperature but a very fine, reddish sand that stuck to the windows of houses and cars.
They climbed the broad stone staircase leading up to the church, then entered in silence. It was as cold inside as outside, but more humid. The coffin had already been laid before the altar. It was a dark day, and the church was in penumbra. Through the tall windows as narrow as loopholes there entered just enough light to prevent one from running into the pews. Everybody sat down and waited for Don Giuliano, the priest. Some exchanged a few words in subdued voices, steam escaping from their mouths. A buzz of whispers filled the church. Piras and his friends sat in the back, on straw-bottomed chairs. Gavino and Maria were farther up, next to Pina.
Collu’s son came through a door, dressed in altar boy’s garb, ringing a bell. Behind him was the priest, wearing funeral vestments. Don Giuliano was short and broad and looked like a true shepherd. His face was as sunburnt as everyone else’s. He had been born in Gonnosfanadiga, a secluded village at the foot of Mount Linas, and was always saying he wanted to return there to die. He talked constantly about the steep steps that led from Gonnos to the top of the hill, from where one could see the whole plain all the way to the horizon.
He began the mass, and all rose to their feet. A few minutes later, they all sat down again. Piras could scarcely remember the liturgy and looked at the others to see what he should do. He couldn’t quite manage to follow the service; it reminded him too much of how oppressed he felt as a child in that same church. In the end he started thinking again about Sunday night, when he’d found Benigno sitting in that armchair …
The carabinieri had arrived from Milis, followed by an ambulance. There were two of them. The older of the two looked like a smaller version of Amedeo Nazzari and may have even cultivated the resemblance by growing a moustache exactly like the actor’s. The other officer was a skinny, stony-faced youth of about twenty. (Piras played the whole scene again in his mind.) The carabinieri had written out the report, starting from the moment Ettore’s Fiat 500 arrived at the Zocchinu quarry. The stretcher-bearers then took away Benigno’s corpse and loaded it into the ambulance. The carabinieri put the pistol in a sack and took it away. Benigno’s beret remained on the floor. Piras picked it up and gave it to Pina. He’d then locked up Benigno’s house, and the 500 had driven off to Bonarcado. Pina didn’t say a word until they’d reached town.
He felt someone tug his shoulder and awoke from his reverie. It was Angelo, telling him to stand. The priest was about to bless the deceased. Piras rose to his feet and started watching Don Giuliano, who was raising a brush dipped in holy water over the coffin, but before he had finished murmuring the Holy Benediction, Piras’s mind had slipped back to the evening of the suicide. He had the sensation that something had eluded him and was therefore continually reviewing in his head everything that had happened … The arrival of the carabinieri … the report … the pistol …
Angelo tugged at his sleeve. The mass was over. They all filed out of the church, and the coffin was loaded back on to the truck. The cemetery was just outside the town, at the opposite end to the church. It was a nice cemetery, orderly and clean, with high walls and dark cypresses. The priest mingled with the group, and everyone began to follow the truck, which now proceeded at a walking pace. Piras remembered the funerals of his childhood, with the coffin on a wooden cart pulled by a donkey. Ettore was walking beside him, telling him an old story about Benigno, but Piras had heard it many times before and wasn’t listening. He was still thinking of that Sunday night and trying to bring into focus the thing that eluded his grasp.
They arrived at the cemetery. The hole in the ground was ready. It had been dug by Mattia Magliona and his son. Magliona had been a gravedigger since adolescence, alongside his father, and was now teaching his son the trade. His graves all had perfectly vertical walls and right angles.
Unloading the coffin from the flatbed, they lowered it with ropes into the hole, as everyone approached the edges to watch. The priest said something, not as a priest but as a friend. Pina stared at the coffin as if she wanted to jump into the grave herself. Giovanni had his hands on her shoulders. Then Mattia and his son began shovelling the earth back into the hole …
At that moment Piras realised what it was that had been dancing around in his head, and he pressed his lips together. Perhaps it was only his policeman’s obsession that made it seem so important. Perhaps it was only a useless detail. But the thing gave him no peace.
At one o’clock, Bordelli’s Beetle was parked in Piazza della Vittoria. He was sitting inside with the window open, smoking a cigarette as he watched the Liceo Dante. The limpid sky had only one large Flemish cloud in it, immobile as a mountain. There were already a few parents’ cars in front of the school. Along the pavement were long queues of bicycles, Vespas and even a few Solexes, those strange motorised bicycles whose engines sat atop the front wheel.
Earlier that day, Tapinassi had come into the inspector’s office, flourishing a sheet of paper in the air. He’d found the girl in the photographs.
‘She’s called Marisa Montigiani, Inspector.’ She lived in Viale Don Minzoni, was seventeen years old, and attended the Liceo Dante.
Bordelli had asked for the photos back, since they were no longer needed. Tapinassi readily obeyed, but with a certain regret. It was almost as if he were breaking up with his girlfriend.
The inspector didn’t want to call on the girl at home. He didn’t want to risk causing any trouble in the family. He was hoping that nobody came to the school to pick the girl up, since Viale Don Minzoni was just round the corner from where she lived. Informing himself as to the schedule, he’d gone to wait outside just before classes let out.
He heard the bell ring inside the building and recalled the days when he’d attended the same liceo many years before. A dark time, with strict rules for all children starting at the age of eight. He got out of the car, tossed aside his cigarette, and waited on the pavement. Moments later the boys and girls started coming out. They created quite a commotion around them. The girls were colourful and full of smiles. When Bordelli had gone to school there weren’t many girls, and what few there were dressed in black and came out silently, in orderly single file.
L
ittle by little, the bicycles and Vespas started to move. Car doors slammed and the vehicles drove off. The inspector scanned the groups of girls, looking for ones with long black hair, and at last he saw her. She was walking beside a chubby blonde and laughing. Marisa looked even more beautiful than in the photographs. She was wearing a navy-blue overcoat and white woollen gloves. Bordelli crossed the street and went up to her.
‘Miss Montigiani?’
‘Yes?’ she said, stopping. Her friend also stopped.
‘Could I speak with you alone for a moment?’ Bordelli asked, looking her in the eye. She was really very beautiful. She looked like an actress.
‘And who are you?’ Marisa asked, a furrow in her brow. The friend stood still, watching.
‘I’ll tell you as soon as we’re alone,’ said Bordelli, with a reassuring smile.
Marisa turned to her friend. ‘I’ll be right back,’ she said.
‘Don’t take all day,’ the little blonde said, staring at Bordelli. Then she went towards the street corner swarming with boys and girls.
‘What is it?’ Marisa said, frowning. Her dark eyes sparkled like wet stones.
‘I’m Inspector Bordelli, police …’
‘What?’ the girl said in a quavering voice, looking at the badge the inspector had thrust under her nose.
‘No need to worry. I just want to ask you a few questions.’
‘What’s happened?’ she said, upset.
‘I want you to tell me about Totuccio Badalamenti,’ Bordelli said calmly. The girl opened her eyes wide and blushed all the way to her ears.
‘I’ve never heard of him.’
‘I found the photos.’
‘What photos?’
‘Signorina Marisa, I beg you please to cooperate …’
The girl’s eyes strayed, looking for her friend, and when she spotted her she gestured as if to say not to wait for her. The friend waved goodbye and left. The throng of kids was thinning out.