Death in Sardinia

by Marco Vichi

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Bordelli, his thumbs hooked into his belt.

  ‘Viva il duce!’ said the commander, making the Fascist salute, but it came off as a rather lifeless gesture. It seemed less an affront than a habit. Bordelli nodded one last time, then turned and started walking back towards the cover of the forest, flanked by his men. They walked calmly, without turning round, but with their ears pricked. And they were in a cold sweat. After they’d walked about a hundred yards, they heard the captain yell again.

  ‘Give my regards to your dickless king!’ They heard the other five laugh.

  ‘The bastards are right,’ Respighi said in a low voice, frowning.

  ‘Let’s first get the hell away from those buffoons, and we can worry about the king later,’ said Bordelli. At that moment he couldn’t imagine what would happen in Italy after a defeat was transformed into a victory. Because one thing alone was certain: the Allies were going to win the war, and it wasn’t going to take them very long, either.

  ‘Go and suck Kesserling’s arse!’ yelled Gennaro at the top of his lungs. But there was no reply.

  22 December

  The telephone rang. Bordelli took a few moments to emerge from his dream, then reached out in the darkness and picked up the receiver.

  ‘Yeah …’

  ‘Inspector, it’s me. Did I wake you up?’

  ‘Piras … what’s happening?’ Bordelli asked, pressing his eyes with his fingers.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I had something to tell you.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Eight o’clock, Inspector.’

  ‘So what is it?’ said Bordelli, yawning. It wasn’t really so early, but he’d slept poorly and felt tired. Piras, on the other hand, was wide awake and talking too fast for the inspector’s foggy head.

  ‘That person I know who shot himself … I went back to his house, because I suddenly remembered to check for the shell …’

  ‘The shell …’ Bordelli muttered, trying hard to grasp the concept.

  ‘I searched the room from top to bottom, Inspector, but there was no shell.’

  ‘That’s not possible,’ said Bordelli, finally awake.

  ‘I searched Benigno’s clothes, and I even asked the carabinieri who wrote up the report. No shell. It’s vanished. I thought about it all night, Inspector, and I could think of only one possible explanation …’

  ‘Murder?’ Bordelli interrupted him, sitting up.

  ‘Find me another and I’ll change my mind,’ the Sardinian said. Bordelli turned on the light and put his feet on the floor.

  ‘I won’t say you’re wrong, Piras.’

  ‘Bullet shells don’t just fly away, Inspector.’

  ‘What do you plan to do?’

  ‘What would you do?’ asked Piras, breathing hard into the receiver.

  ‘If you’re really convinced of what you say—’

  ‘I’m convinced,’ Piras interrupted him.

  ‘Then carry on,’ said Bordelli, standing up.

  ‘For the moment I’d rather not say anything to the carabinieri, but I want you to agree,’ said Piras.

  ‘Do what you think best, Piras, you have my full support.’

  ‘I was very fond of Benigno, Inspector. And if someone killed him, I want to find them,’ said Piras.

  ‘Just be sure not to do anything stupid, and keep me informed.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Good luck, Piras.’

  ‘Thanks, sir.’ They said goodbye, and Bordelli dragged himself into the bathroom. He washed his face in cold water and then looked at himself in the mirror. Piras’s phone call was still echoing in his head. A pistol is fired and the shell can’t be found. It wasn’t normal, in any sense. If someone had actually shot this Benigno, hoping to make it look like a suicide … getting rid of the shell could not have been part of his plan. He brushed his teeth and spat the night’s bitterness into the plughole. Looking at himself again in the mirror, he saw something dark trickling from one nostril. He thought it was blood. He blew his nose and looked at the results. There were black spots on the handkerchief. But it wasn’t blood. The tar in his lungs was beginning to break up. Smoking less was starting to bear its first fruits … Even if they were disgusting to look at.

  He went out and got into his car. A few clouds floated lazily across the sky, but the night’s rain was gone and the sun showed its face from time to time. Every time his thoughts turned to Odoardo, he heard a great big fly buzz in his head. Actually it was a bee in his bonnet, to be more precise. He had to go back soon and have another little chat with the lad. Let’s wait for Christmas to be over, he thought, and then I’ll go back. When he got to the office, he sent Mugnai to fetch him some coffee. He put an unlit cigarette down on the desk and looked at it from time to time. But he was able to resist. Around mid-morning there was a knock at the door. It was Mugnai again. He had in his hand a couple of letters for the inspector and a cardboard box with a slot on top.

  ‘What’s the box for, Mugnai?’

  ‘Signora Attilia’s Christmas bonus, Inspector. It’s your turn.’ Attilia was the woman who’d started cleaning the offices a few months before, following old Rosalia’s retirement. She came every morning by train from Vicchio. Bordelli pulled out a couple of thousand-lira notes and slipped them into the box.

  ‘What are you doing for Christmas, Mugnai?’

  ‘I’m working, that’s what.’

  ‘Well, that certainly must make you happy.’

  ‘Don’t get me started, Inspector.’

  ‘At least you know you won’t have to do it next year.’

  ‘I think I’ll go and celebrate right now,’ Mugnai said, walking away with his Chaplinesque waddle. Bordelli opened the first envelope. It was the complete report on Badalamenti’s post-mortem. As usual, Diotivede had typed it up himself on his Olivetti Lettera 22. And, as usual, the results were awful. Diotivede made a lot of mistakes, and to correct them, he merely typed over them ten times. The paragraph indentations never lined up, and the paper always had a few stains on it. The contents, however, were clear and precise. Diotivede had a great passion for his work, and he always inspected the bodies one millimetre at a time, inside and out.

  The inspector read the report very carefully, and when he’d finished, he heaved a long sigh. It contained nothing new that might be of help, at least for the moment. He dropped the sheets of paper on to his desk. Almost without realising it, he picked up the cigarette and lit it. Still thinking about Odoardo, he became spellbound watching a fly walk on the handle of the paper-cutter. It was going round in circles, a bit like himself at that moment. Let’s wait for Christmas to be over, he repeated to himself, and then I’ll go back and talk to the boy …

  When the fly flew away, he roused himself and opened the other envelope. It was the order for the seizure of Badalamenti’s possessions, signed by Ginzillo. Inside there was also Badalamenti’s gold key-chain, with the keys to the Porsche. He was about to call Mugnai to have him take care of it, but then changed his mind and decided to see to it himself. He’d never driven such an expensive car before.

  He left the office and went to the police garage to pick up the Beetle. He’d left it there early that morning to have the oil and spark plugs checked. Entering the garage, he saw a raised bonnet in the distance, with the lower half of a human body hanging out of it. Sallustio, the police mechanic, was working on the motor of a black Maserati, Rabozzi’s patrol car. He seemed deeply engrossed. Bordelli stopped beside him.

  ‘Hello, handsome,’ he said. Sallustio looked up with a jolt and very nearly bashed his head against the bonnet.

  ‘Bloody hell, Inspector! You frightened me.’

  ‘I wonder if there’s really any difference between you and Diotivede.’ The mechanic emerged in full from the car’s bowels. He was short and broad, with the proud, sort of blustery face of one who knew he did his job well. He stretched his cramped back, keeping his oil-stained hands far from his oil-stained overalls.<
br />
  ‘I wouldn’t trade places with Diotivede even for a Ferrari, Inspector. We work hard here, but then we get to see the engine running again. It’s like we’ve brought it back to life. Diotivede, on the other hand …’ Bordelli was always amazed that a massive man like Sallustio could have such delicate hands.

  ‘But the passion for poking around inside someone’s or something’s guts seems the same to me,’ he said.

  ‘Ah, well, as for that, either you’ve got it or you haven’t,’ the mechanic said, laughing. The inspector bent over to have a look at the Maserati’s dismantled engine. He had trouble believing that all those greasy parts could come back together and make a car run.

  ‘Have you had a look at the Beetle?’

  ‘I changed the oil. The plugs should be all right for a while yet.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Bordelli took out a thousand-lira note and, ignoring Sallustio’s protests, put it in the pocket of his overalls.

  ‘Thank you, Inspector. The keys are in the glove compartment.’

  ‘What are you doing for Christmas, Sallustio?’

  ‘I’m going out to the country with my brothers to see our parents. They’ll be killing a goose for the holiday. All the uncles and aunts and cousins will be there too. Usually there’re more than fifty of us.’

  ‘All right, then, I’ll be on my way. Have a happy Christmas.’

  ‘A happy Christmas to you, too, Inspector.’ Around eleven o’clock, after his walk, Piras went and knocked at Pina’s door again. He wanted to tell her he needed to talk a little more about Benigno.

  ‘Why, did something happen that you didn’t tell me about?’ she asked, alarmed.

  ‘Nothing important, Pina. I would just like to understand why Benigno did what he did,’ Piras lied.

  ‘Come in,’ she said, not quite convinced. When they entered the kitchen, Piras smelled a strong aroma of cooked apples. Pina went and turned down the flame under a large aluminium pot, then lifted the lid and stirred the hot jam. Spread out on the table was some dough for making papassinos.

  ‘My mother’s making some, too,’ said Piras, just to say something ordinary. Pina didn’t reply. She took two ornate glasses from the cupboard and grabbed a bottle of Vernaccia that Giovanni had made himself.16

  ‘A little wine?’ she asked.

  ‘Just a drop, thanks. What are you doing for Christmas?’ asked Piras. He was anxious to ask her some questions, but pretending to be calm so as not to arouse her suspicions. Pina poured a little wine into both glasses, and they took a sip.

  ‘My sons are staying in Italy this year,’ said Pina.

  ‘I know, your husband told me.’

  ‘Only Giovanni’s cousin will be coming from Solarussa with his wife.’

  ‘Ah, good,’ said Piras.

  ‘What are your family doing?’

  ‘We’ve got some relatives coming over,’ said Piras. They sat for a few moments in silence. Pina seemed absent, as if forever in the grip of an obsession. Then she shook her head.

  ‘I always told Benigno, find yourself a wife, you can’t live your life always alone,’ she said.

  ‘How did he seem, the last time you saw him? Did he seem strange?’ Piras asked.

  ‘Don Giuliano always says that only God can take your life away, and it’s a mortal sin if you do it yourself,’ said Pina.

  ‘There are always exceptions …’

  ‘Nino wasn’t a bad man.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Pina, but do you remember if he was worried or upset about anything the last time you saw him?’ asked Piras, anxious to talk about Benigno.

  ‘He was the same as always,’ said Pina.

  ‘Do you know if anything bad had happened to him?’

  ‘He didn’t say anything to me.’

  ‘I dunno … Did he quarrel with anyone, or receive some bad news?’

  ‘He didn’t say anything.’

  ‘Do you know if he had any enemies, or if he was involved in some old feud or vendetta?’ Piras pressed her, hoping to find something to grab on to, even though that sort of murder had little of the style of traditional Sardinian feuds. Pina frowned at him.

  ‘What’s this got to do with vendettas? He wasn’t murdered!’

  ‘I was just … you know, asking … Sometimes, with those things, you never know what can happen,’ Piras lied with the straightest face imaginable.

  ‘I don’t know anything about any vendettas. I think he would have told me. When I last saw him, he was fine and didn’t seem to have any troubles. I really don’t understand why he went and did such a terrible thing,’ she said, staring at the table. Then she stood up and went over to the cooker, lifted the lid on the pot again and stirred a few more times, looking grim. The smell of apples was growing stronger and stronger. Piras stood up and, leaning on his crutches, went over to her.

  ‘Think hard, Pina. Had Benigno been doing anything … unusual lately?’ he asked.

  ‘He was doing what he always did. Tending his sheep, making cheese …’ Pina muttered, still stirring the hot jam.

  ‘Where did he sell his cheese?’ Piras asked.

  ‘He gave most of it to a man who sold it at the market at Oristano.’

  ‘Did Benigno bring it to him, or did the man come and get it himself ?’

  ‘Nino would bring it to him once a week.’

  ‘Did Benigno have any shepherds working for him, lending a hand? Or did he do everything alone?’

  ‘He did everything alone,’ said Pina.

  ‘And did he by any chance meet anyone new these past few weeks?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ she said, shrugging. Piras ran a hand over his head, increasingly discouraged.

  ‘What sort of things did he say to you the last time you saw him?’ he asked. Pina raised the ladle and let the jam drip slowly out. It was still too liquid. She put the lid back on the pot and turned round.

  ‘He talked about a lot of things,’ she said.

  ‘Try to tell me everything you can remember,’ said Piras, convinced he was getting nowhere. Pina thought it over for a moment.

  ‘He said he was tired of looking after all those sheep. He wanted to buy a vineyard and start making wine, like Giovanni.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’d decided he was going to fix the roof, because it rained inside the house … He also mentioned some land he wanted to sell,’ said Pina, seeming tired of all these meaningless questions.

  ‘What land?’ asked Piras.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Did he want to sell it, or was he already in the process of selling it?’

  ‘I really don’t know, but I’m sure Giovanni does. He talked a lot more about these things with him.’

  ‘And where’s Giovanni now?’

  ‘He went out to chop some wood, up past the orange grove. He should be back pretty soon.’

  ‘I’ll go and look for him. That way I’ll get a little exercise,’ said Piras, heading for the door. Pina shuffled behind him with a weary step. She was taking Benigno’s death very badly, especially the fact that it had been a suicide.

  ‘Will you two be coming over to watch the film tonight?’ Piras asked at the door.

  ‘If we’re not too tired …’

  ‘A little distraction might do you good.’

  ‘I don’t know … Tell your mamma we’ll see her on Christmas Eve around midnight for the mass.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘’Bye, Nino,’ she said, trying to smile.

  ‘Pina, if you need any help with the declaration of succession … don’t hesitate to ask.’ She was the sole heir of the deceased’s estate.

  ‘You can talk about it with Giovanni. He does everything,’ said Pina.

  ‘Goodbye, Pina.’ Piras nodded and went out. The Setzus’ wood was a little over half a mile outside town, towards Sulacheddu. It was all uphill, and it took Piras a good half-hour to get there. Without crutches it would have taken him less than half that long. A large, motionless cloud covered th
e sun, but all around it the sky was blue. When he turned down the path that led into the wood, he saw Giovanni coming towards him on a cart full of wood. He waited for him at the end of the path, leaning on his crutches.

  ‘Hey …’ Giovanni said as he drew near, and the donkey slowed down and came to a halt.

  ‘A lot of wood, eh?’ said Piras.

  ‘And it’s never enough!’ said Giovanni.

  ‘I’ve just been to see Pina. We talked a little about what happened.’

  ‘Lately that’s all she ever talks about …’

  ‘She told me Benigno wanted to sell some land in Oristano,’ said Piras, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to say. Giovanni looked at him, scratching his face with his fingernails.

  ‘That’s right. Why do you mention it?’

  ‘I dunno … I’m just trying to understand what sort of reason Benigno might have had … for doing what he did,’ said Piras. Giovanni spat from the cart and shook his head.

  ‘I kept telling him he should keep that land, that it was a gold mine, but he never listened to anybody,’ said Giovanni.

  ‘Was it suitable for building?’

  ‘Benigno used to tell me you could build two buildings as tall as the bell tower on it,’ he said, raising his hand to the sky.

  ‘Maybe he needed money to repair the roof.’

  ‘He should have kept it,’ said Giovanni, still shaking his head. The donkey was immobile, staring into infinity.

  ‘Now it’s all yours. You can do whatever you want with it,’ said Piras.

  ‘It’s all Pina’s. I’ve got nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Was there already someone interested in buying it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Benigno had put it all in the hands of some lawyer in Oristano.’

  ‘Do you know his name?’ Piras asked, taking a step forward. Giovanni rearranged the hat on his head and searched his memory. He seemed to be looking at the donkey’s ears.

  ‘Musillo,’ he said at last with confidence.

  ‘Musillo …’ Piras repeated softly.

  ‘He’s half Pugliese. Benigno trusted him.’