by Marco Vichi
‘Can that donkey pull both of us?’
‘Climb aboard.’ Piras set his crutches down on the cart and sat at the end of the flatbed.
‘Are you going to need any help with the succession papers? Angelo works at the town hall and knows about that sort of thing,’ he said.
‘We can talk about it after Epiphany … Ho!’ said Giovanni, and the donkey resumed walking.
Around midday Bordelli turned down Via Stoppani, a private road with no exit, which started at the corner of Via Volta and went up the Camerata hill, where Fontana the barrister lived. At the corner of Via Barbacane, there was a niche with a painted Madonna, peeling in spots but still solemn, in the stone wall marking the boundary of the garden of a large house dressed up as a castle. Across the street was an immense, abandoned villa surrounded by a park overgrown with weeds. It no longer had any windows, and the black rectangles gave the house a lugubrious atmosphere even during the day. If someone had told him there were ghosts between those four walls he would have had no trouble believing it.
He drove slowly up the street. There were a few cars parked along the pavement, almost all of them fancy. Big Fiats, Lancias, even a black MG and an extremely long Jaguar. A pot of money on four wheels. He’d never been inside a car like that. Proceeding another hundred yards or so, he stopped at last in front of Fontana’s villa. He got out and peered through the gate. The villa was enormous, apparently deserted, and surrounded by high-trunked trees that towered above the roof. It must have been built in the late nineteenth century, though it didn’t look as unwieldy as some buildings from that period. The garden was well tended, the flower beds nicely hoed and raked, the grass mown. Earthenware jugs and vases were scattered tastefully about on the lawn and along the steps leading up to the villa. The street was completely silent, but when he pricked up his ears, he could hear a sort of indecipherable refrain. It seemed in fact to be coming from Fontana the barrister’s villa. A bit farther on, there was another, larger gate for cars. Bordelli looked in through the bars. Beside the house was a paved lane that led to a garage with its broad door open. Visible inside were Guido Fontana’s BSA and a Solex.
He went back to the smaller gate. He pressed the doorbell and heard two chimes ring inside the house. He waited for at least a minute, but nobody came out. He rang again and, while waiting, put a cigarette between his lips. He looked around a little. Every so often he could hear a car drive past in Viale Volta, but it was only a distant, almost pleasant hiss. In springtime the place must be a cacophony of bumblebees and songbirds, he thought. The villas were only on one side of the street; the other was lined with an old stone wall a good ten feet high with bottle shards cemented on top. Beyond the wall one could see a small hill covered with centuries-old trees and tall, bare acacias. It was the wild part of the Parco del Ventaglio … The very place where a young girl of eight had been found strangled to death the year before. The inspector remembered the scene well. That day was the beginning of one of the worst nightmares of his career … Then he unfailingly remembered that he had also met, during the same period, a beautiful Jewish girl who had set him dreaming for a few weeks …
He rang the Fontanas’ bell again and waited a while longer. But no one came to the door. He was about to leave when he saw the curtain to a first-floor window move. For a brief second a head appeared behind the panes, and then the curtain closed again. A few seconds later the front door opened. A tall, slender young man came out. He was wearing a brown leather jacket and had a fringe of black hair over his eyes. An old German shepherd that looked rather gentle came out with him. The youth crossed the garden with the dog at his side and stopped in front of the gate. Through the still-open door to the house came some music that seemed to be rising up from underground.
‘Good morning,’ said the young man, suspicious. The dog stuck its muzzle between the bars and sniffed the stranger.
‘Inspector Bordelli, police,’ said Bordelli, flashing his badge.
‘I’m looking for Guido Fontana.’
‘That’s me,’ said Guido, hands in his pockets. He made no move to open the gate. He had a gaunt face and nervous, slightly bloodshot eyes.
‘Aren’t you going to let me in?’ asked the inspector.
‘I’m unarmed.’ Guido turned to the dog.
‘Go lie down, Poldo,’ he said. The dog went a few yards away and lay down on the ground. The youth opened the gate.
‘Are you looking for Raffaele?’ he asked, shaking Bordelli’s hand.
‘Is he here?’
‘Yes, he’s inside.’
‘First I’d like to have a few words with you,’ said Bordelli.
‘Now?’ said the youth, impatient. Bordelli nodded. The dog calmly got up and came forward to have a closer look at the inspector.
‘It seems Raffaele has already told you everything,’ said Bordelli.
‘He mentioned a couple of things,’ said Guido. The dog started sniffing the intruder’s clothes. The inspector patted the animal’s head, and Poldo began wagging his tail. He was a fine specimen, but a bit short compared to Blisk.
‘If I’ve understood correctly, you see each other often,’ Bordelli said.
‘Every day.’
‘Do you remember what the two of you did on the tenth of December? It was a Friday,’ said Bordelli, hand still stroking Poldo between the ears.
‘We spent most of the day indoors, because it was raining,’ said Guido.
‘Good memory,’ said Bordelli.
‘I remember it clearly because at one point we went into town to buy a record and got all wet,’ Guido said as if bored.
‘What was the record?’ Bordelli asked, like a meticulous police detective. Actually, however, he was merely curious to know what sort of music those two listened to. The youngster shrugged.
‘You wouldn’t know them.’
‘Aren’t you being a little prejudiced?
‘The Rolling Stones,’ Guido said curtly.
‘You’re right, I don’t know them.’
‘I told you,’ the lad said. He was the opposite of Raffaele. He acted as if speaking cost him a great deal of effort. The dog lay down and rested its muzzle on its forepaws, as if expecting a long, boring conversation.
‘At what time on that Friday did Raffaele come here?’
‘He always comes round about ten o’clock.’
‘In the morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘And on that day, too, he came at ten?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you were together the whole time … Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Aside from going and buying that record, what did you do?’
‘We played music, listened to music, talked, breathed … that sort of thing.’
‘I asked you a serious question,’ said Bordelli.
‘We were together the whole time. Isn’t that what you wanted to know?’
‘At what time did Raffaele leave?’
‘Late at night, as always.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Around two, half past two,’ said the youth, tired of all the questions.
‘And from ten in the morning till two at night, you were never apart?’
‘No, that’s what I just said.’
‘Not even for, say, an hour?’
‘No.’
‘Would you repeat these same things under oath in a court of law?’ the inspector asked, looking him hard in the eye.
‘Of course.’
‘I have to tell you something,’ said Bordelli.
‘What?’
‘I have the feeling that in about a minute your nose is going to start growing like Pinocchio’s … Do you know who Pinocchio is?’
‘I told you the truth.’
‘It’s very good of you to want to protect your friend, but it’s also a mistake.’
‘I’m not protecting anybody.’
‘So much the better. Could I talk to Raffaele?’ Bordelli asked with a c
heerful smile.
‘He’s inside,’ said Guido.
‘Are you inviting me in?’
‘Do as you like.’
‘I wouldn’t want to trouble you.’
‘No trouble at all,’ said Guido. He closed the gate behind the inspector, and headed towards the villa with the dog beside him. Bordelli followed behind.
‘Is there anyone else in the house?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Don’t you have a cleaning woman?’
‘She’s out shopping.’
‘And what about your mother?’
‘My mother doesn’t live here.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘Milan.’
‘Are your parents separated?’17
‘Yes, but we’re not supposed to say so,’ said Guido, shrugging his shoulders, as if the matter didn’t concern him. They went into the house, followed by the dog, and Guido closed the great door behind them. The music was more audible inside. They climbed three more steps and found themselves in the entrance hall, a majestic space full of paintings and sculptures with a number of dark wooden doors opening on to it. There was also a staircase in pietra serena with a carved balustrade leading to the first floor. It was all very solemn and not very welcoming. It looked like something grandiose in miniature.
The inspector walked beside Guido down a broad corridor full of pictures and antique furniture, followed by the clicking sound of the dog’s claws on the marble floor. The slender, silent youth moved through all these things like a shadow, ignoring them. He had no connection to anything around him, like an outsider who had ended up there by chance.
The music was getting clearer and clearer. There was an electric guitar, endlessly repeating the same notes, and a voice yelling over it.
‘What is this music?’ Bordelli asked.
‘It’s the record I mentioned,’ said Guido.
‘What did you say it’s called?’
‘It’s by the Rolling Stones, a British rock group,’ Guido said with a sigh, as if he’d been forced to say that pigs have four feet.
‘And what does it mean?’
‘Well, you know the saying; “a rolling stone gathers no moss”. It’s like calling yourself “the Ne’er-do-Wells” or “the Hooligans”.’
‘Interesting,’ said Bordelli. The lad went through an open door and they entered a relatively small room with an entirely different atmosphere from the rest of the house. Raffaele wasn’t there. The walls were papered over with posters … Very young men with hair down to their chins and electric guitars in their hands. Scattered about on the bed was a bit of everything: clothes, books, dust covers of 45 rpm records. The music was very loud and blaring out of a light blue portable gramophone. Guido went and turned down the volume, ever so slightly bobbing his head to the rhythm of the song.
‘I liked that,’ said Bordelli, curious. In that song he heard a power that seemed to carry the listener away with it. The dog went and lay down in a corner, resting its muzzle on its paws. The floor was covered with a carpet full of cigarette burns, and through the window, which gave on to the garden behind the house, the inspector saw the trunks of a few age-old pines and a stone fountain covered with moss.
‘Raffaele must have gone downstairs,’ said Guido.
‘To the cellar?’
‘He’s obsessed with my electric train set.’
‘You two play with electric trains?’ asked Bordelli, repressing a smile.
‘Come,’ said the young man. They left the room, walked back through the whole house, and entered a large kitchen. There was a wooden table so long that it could have seated twenty. Behind a small dark door was a staircase. As they descended, Bordelli heard a noise that sounded like potatoes frying in a giant pan.
‘Raffaele, there’s a policeman here looking for you,’ Guido called out in a loud voice. Nobody replied. When they got to the bottom of the stairs, Bordelli’s jaw dropped. In the dimly lit room, he saw a complicated network of railways with level crossings, tunnels, waterfalls, tree-covered hills … and six or seven trains with headlights on, travelling through the night. He felt like a giant looking on. On the other side of that miniature world was Raffaele, smoking, with great clouds of dense smoke swirling round his head. He waved hello to the inspector and started walking round the model trains. Taking a last puff, he threw the butt on the floor. He walked like a gunslinger, legs sheathed in black leather trousers. He came up to the inspector and shook his hand.
‘Have you come to arrest me?’ he said, smiling. His eyes were also bloodshot.
‘It might not be a bad idea,’ the inspector said, sniffing the air. There was a strong smell vaguely similar to that of burnt rosemary. Raffaele shrugged and turned to look at the trains penetrating the darkness with tiny headlamps the size of lentils.
‘When I get bored I come down here and watch,’ he said.
‘I’m going back upstairs,’ said Guido, heading for the stairs.
‘I won’t bother to ask what you two have been smoking,’ said Bordelli.
‘Whereas I know what drug you’ve been smoking,’ said Raffaele.
‘It’s the strongest of them all.’
‘It’s hardly a drug,’ Bordelli said defensively.
‘Just try going a week without smoking your governmentstamped cigarettes.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘My point is that we are sick and tired of having to deal with your hypocrisy … We are unsatisfied, very unsatisfied,’ Raffaele said calmly.
‘Who’s “we”?’
‘I was waiting for you to ask that. You know perfectly well what I’m talking about and are only pretending not to understand … And that’s exactly what we’re sick and tired of.’
Raffaele’s tone was not terribly aggressive. In fact, it was rather serene, if, perhaps, a bit disillusioned. He spoke as if he were repeating the most obvious things for the hundredth time. Bordelli said nothing. He didn’t know what to say. It was hard to give a name to what he was feeling, but there was no question that he had never before found himself in a situation like this. The young man could have been his son, and with his manner he seemed to be asking for a clout on the head … And it was he, Bordelli, who felt ill at ease. He who had fought the war against the Nazis and the Fascists, suffered the cold, risked his life for his country … Jesus bloody Christ, he was turning into an old dodderer spewing rhetoric!
Raffaele turned off the power switch for the trains, and all railway traffic stopped at once. He then gestured to Bordelli, inviting him to go back upstairs with him, and started up the steps. The inspector followed behind.
They went back into Guido’s room. The dog looked at them without bothering to raise its head, thumping its tail. The gramophone was playing the same disc as before, at a more acceptable volume. Guido was sitting on the bed, holding a guitar and trying to keep up with the music. Raffaele sat down on the carpet and leaned back against the wall. The inspector went over to the record player and picked up the empty dust jacket for the disc. He read the title:
‘Satisfaction’. Under it were three boys with hair over their ears and faces like tough guys. But they also had something feminine about them, too, like Raffaele, and, like him, seemed to belong to a different race. The inspector thumbed through some of the other records, all with English names he didn’t recognise.
‘What do the words say?’ he asked.
‘They say what I was saying before,’ Raffaele quipped. The inspector dropped the records and put his hands into the pockets of his trench coat. He started fingering his packet of cigarettes, without making up his mind to take it out. He didn’t want the two children to see that he was a drug addict. The song ended, and for a few seconds there was only the scraping of the needle on the record, but then the arm rose with a click and went backwards. After the music, the silence seemed absolute. Guido was holding the guitar strings still with his fingers. The inspector calmly looked over at Raffaele, even though he still ha
d that strange sensation of being a foreigner in a faraway land. He had come for a specific reason, and here he was wasting time.
‘Your friend told me that on Friday the tenth the two of you were together the whole day. Can you confirm that for me?’ he asked Raffaele.
‘Will it serve any purpose if I reply?’
‘That depends,’ said the inspector. Raffaele made a wry face.
‘I think I understand. You plan to keep badgering me with your little questions until I throw myself on the ground, weeping, and confess to my sins.’
‘That does happen sometimes,’ said Bordelli, smiling. But little by little he was beginning to realise he had more or less reached a dead end. Raffaele had a good motive to kill, was left-handed, and did not have an ironclad alibi. But, aside from these facts, there was no evidence against him. If something concrete didn’t turn up soon, the murder case’s file would end up on a courthouse shelf with a nice long number on it and be soon forgotten.
‘I didn’t kill the bastard,’ said Raffaele. His friend started playing and wailing something very softly, head bent over the instrument’s resonance chamber. What was happening in the room seemed of no concern to him at all.
‘Maybe you both did it,’ said Bordelli. Guido stopped his strumming and looked up.
‘Did what?’ he said.
‘Killed Badalamenti.’
‘I don’t know him,’ said Guido, who kept staring at him. Raffaele calmly went up to Bordelli.
‘I’ve already told you what I think, Inspector … The sewer rat deserved to be murdered.’
‘Then tell me the rest.’
‘Somebody gave him what he had coming to him, but it wasn’t me. I have nothing else to add,’ said Raffaele.
‘I foresee a lot of long conversations with you, Mr Montigiani.’
‘All right, then, Inspector, I did it, I killed him, I stuck those scissors in his neck … but this is only the beginning, I’m going to kill a lot more shitbags like him,’ said Raffaele, crossing his arms over his chest. For the first time, Guido’s face broke into a smile.
‘I’ll be seeing you soon,’ said Bordelli, not knowing what else to say.
‘I’ll show you out,’ said Guido, laying the guitar down on the bed.