by Marco Vichi
‘No need,’ Bordelli said, stopping him.
‘Happy Christmas, Inspector,’ said Raffaele, giving him a military salute, then turning round and going over to the record player. Bordelli left the room. A few seconds later the sound of the same electric guitar burst out, soon followed by the voice. He walked through the house without looking around, then closed the main door behind him with the feeling of having been through an ordeal. At the gate he ran into the cleaning lady, who was returning with the shopping. She was tall with broad shoulders and thin white hair.
‘Good morning,’ said Bordelli. The woman looked at him with suspicion and muttered a reply. She had a large mole on her chin, bristling with hair. She set her shopping bags down on the ground, waited for the stranger to leave, and then made sure the gate was locked. She remained there, watching Bordelli through the bars. She looked like a cloistered nun from Santa Verdiana. The inspector got into his car, turned it round and went back towards town. It was time to go see Totò and eat something. Piras closed the kitchen door and looked in the directory for the telephone number of a lawyer called Luigi Musillo. He found it and dialled the number.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m looking for Musillo, the lawyer. My name’s Piras.’
‘I’m Musillo.’
‘I’m a friend of the family of Benigno Staffa, sir,’ Piras said in a soft voice, so his mother wouldn’t hear.
‘I heard about the tragedy,’ said Musillo.
‘I would like to speak to you. When do you think we could meet?’ Piras asked. He didn’t want to stay on the phone too long.
‘Is there some problem?’ the lawyer asked.
‘I’m sorry, but I’d rather discuss this in person.’
‘All right, then. Call me right after Christmas.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but it’s quite urgent. I forgot to mention … I’m with the police.’
‘Has something happened?’ asked Musillo, slightly alarmed.
‘I don’t know yet, but I would like to see you as soon as possible.’ Musillo heaved a long sigh and remained silent for a few seconds.
‘Would tomorrow morning at eleven be all right?’ he finally said.
‘That would be perfect, thank you.’ Piras said goodbye and hung up. He went into the kitchen and saw the table already set. He was very hungry. His mother was cooking something in a skillet. It had to be pork.
‘How long till we eat?’ he asked.
‘Not long,’ said Maria. Gavino was hammering away at something in the tool shed behind the house.
‘What’s he doing?’ asked Pietrino.
‘Fixing the chicken-coop door.’
‘Again?’ he said in surprise.
‘He found another dead hen with her bottom bitten off.’
‘It’s a lost cause when you’re dealing with martens,’ said Pietrino.
‘You know what Dad’s like. He’s stubborn like you,’ said Maria, who went and stirred the meat.
‘Pina says she and Giovanni will come by on Christmas Eve, before mass,’ said Pietrino.
‘Poor Pina …’
‘Maybe they’ll come tonight for the movie.’
‘The Faddas are coming too,’ said Maria. That evening there was an American musical on the telly. The Piras’s kitchen had become a sort of cinema, especially on Mondays and Wednesdays, when there was a film on TV. Piras waited for his mother to put the pasta in the water, then hopped on his crutches to the telephone and dialled Sonia’s number.
At half past seven the sky was as black as the bottom of a well. The inspector left the station and got into his car with the intention of going and getting Badalamenti’s Porsche. Then he changed his mind. Driving slowly through the back streets of Florence, he arrived at the hills at the edge of town. He was lost in thought, patiently chewing the end of an unlit cigarette. The song with the guitar he’d heard at Guido’s house was still playing in his head, though he would never have been able to sing it. He turned up another small street and came out at Via Senese. He turned left, drove past Galluzzo and, a few minutes later, down Via di Quintole. He’d failed to resist the temptation to go to Odoardo’s house.
He entered the unpaved driveway and parked on the threshing floor. The house was in total darkness. There wasn’t even a light on under the loggia, and so he left the headlamps on. He got out and went to see whether the Vespa was there. It wasn’t. It was very cold outside. He got back into the car, turned off the headlamps, and settled in to wait for the boy. There was a bit of moonlight. The dark silhouette of the Lancia Ardea reminded him of a dead whale beached on the sand.
He decided to wait until nine for Odoardo. If the kid didn’t show up by then, he would return the following morning. He wanted to see him as soon as possible, there was no getting round it. By now he was convinced the lad was hiding something, and he had an overwhelming desire to find out what. Getting more comfortable in the seat, he lit a cigarette. It must have been his fourth, but he wasn’t sure. If he wanted to count them in earnest, he would have to mark a notch in pen on the packet each time he lit one. Too much trouble.
Suddenly a light shone in the distance. It was the headlamp of a motorbike coming up Via di Quintole, and he hoped it would be Odoardo’s Vespa. Every so often the light would disappear round a bend and then reappear. When it was opposite the house it slowed down and then turned towards the farmstead. Odoardo drove across the threshing floor wearing his motorcycle goggles and a red scarf that covered half his face. When he passed by the Beetle he slowed down for a moment, then went on. He took the Vespa up under the loggia and turned off the motor. A few seconds later two lights came on, one shining on to the threshing floor, the other above the front door of the house. The inspector got out of the car and went towards the youth. Odoardo was wearing an oversized coat and holding the usual bag. He seemed chilled and was shivering slightly. Bordelli went up to him, holding out his hand.
‘Hello, Odoardo,’ he said.
The boy removed a glove and shook his hand. He looked at Bordelli without surprise but seemed quite irritated.
‘What brings you out this way, Inspector? Are you on the trail of a wild boar?’ he said with a straight face.
‘If you’ve got a minute, I’d like to have a little talk with you.’
‘What about?’
‘Why don’t we go inside? I can see you’re cold, too.’ Odoardo sighed and turned the key in the door.
‘I don’t have much time, I have to go out again in half an hour.’
‘I’ll take only ten minutes of your time.’ They entered a large unfurnished room, then the inspector followed Odoardo up some stone stairs. The inside of the house was not in the same state of abandon as the outside. The air was warm, and it all smelled clean. They entered a big room with a great fireplace charred black and full of ashes. Beside it was a box for fruit now full of old newspapers; the firewood was stacked in a corner. The terracotta-tiled floor was almost entirely covered by an enormous oriental carpet. There was little furniture, but one could see that this was by choice.
‘I like this house,’ said Bordelli.
‘My mother did everything,’ said Odoardo. On the opposite side of the room there was a dark doorway leading into a corridor. Bordelli looked around a little more. The couch and armchairs were from the twenties, their fabric a bit worn, and in the middle of the room was a low table of burnished wood. On the walls were some pictures, a functioning pendulum clock and a map of the world. The walls were yellowed with age but in good condition. It was the kind of house one could quickly grow fond of, thought Bordelli. Odoardo took his hat off and tossed it on to the back of an armchair. He seemed calm, as if resigned to the intrusion.
‘No television?’ Bordelli asked.
‘No.’
‘It’s amusing sometimes.’
‘I’m sure it is.’
‘At other times, however …’
‘Do you mind if I change my clothes?’ Odoardo asked, though it wasn’t really a question
.
‘Just act as if I wasn’t here,’ said Bordelli.
‘That’s asking too much. Meanwhile, if you’d like something to drink …’ said the young man, pointing to a glass-fronted cabinet. Bordelli thanked him, went over to the cabinet and opened it. In the first row he saw a dark bottle with a handwritten label on it that said: Nocino 1962.18 He took it and held it in the air.
‘May I?’ he asked.
‘Please do, the glasses are below.’ Bordelli took a small glass and filled it to the brim. Odoardo was unbuttoning his shirt.
‘What was it you wanted to say to me?’ he asked calmly.
‘This nocino is excellent,’ Bordelli said.
‘Did your mother make it?’
‘How’d you guess?’ said Odoardo in the tone of someone who knew how to ignore provocations. Then he went down the dark corridor and disappeared behind the first door. Bordelli started walking about the room, sipping the nocino and poking about. On the mantelpiece he noticed an old hand grenade. It was Italian, a model he knew well. He unscrewed it, made sure it was empty, then closed it again.
‘Did your mother like hand grenades?’ he asked, raising his voice to be heard.
‘That’s mine,’ the youth yelled.
‘I’ve seen quite a few of these explode. They do a lot of harm.’
‘What did you do during the war, Inspector?’
‘I was in the San Marco brigades.’
‘They were Fascists, if I remember correctly.’
‘Only a minority, up north. I was with Marshal Badoglio’s San Marco.’
‘What did you do?’
‘We paved the way for the American advance. We were putting salt on the Germans’ tails almost daily.’ Odoardo reappeared in the room, buttoning up a white shirt.
‘Did you kill of a lot of them?’ he asked.
‘I tried my best.’
‘The bastards deserved it.’
‘Killing is never fun, but in that case I felt I was ridding the world of an infection.’
‘I agree,’ Odoardo said coldly.
‘Maybe killing a loan shark gives you the same feeling,’ said Bordelli, looking him in the eye. Odoardo stiffened a little.
‘You should ask that question of someone who can answer it,’ he said, disappearing again into his room. Having finished his glass of nocino, Bordelli went back to refill it. He really felt like smoking, but as usual tried to resist. With the little glass in his hand, he went slowly down the corridor and poked his head into Odoardo’s room. He found him seated and tying his shoes. I’m seriously thinking about finding a house like this to live in,’ said Bordelli, looking up at the ceiling rafters, riddled with woodworm holes.
‘Lucky you …’
‘Why do you say that? Do you think it’s such a bad thing to move to the country?’ Odoardo stood up, turned off the light and left the room, passing by the inspector and looking annoyed.
‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but I still haven’t understood what this urgent thing was that you needed to talk to me about.’ Bordelli followed him into the great room with the fireplace and set his empty glass down on the table.
‘I like you, Odoardo. But don’t take it the wrong way. I mean it man to man. I’m convinced I’m dealing with an intelligent person, and I’d like to talk to you a little more.’
‘I don’t understand what about,’ said Odoardo.
‘Well, for example, I’d like to give you some of the details of that murder. I still remember them clearly … Did I mention that Badalamenti lived close to me?’
‘I don’t know who he was and I couldn’t care less that he was murdered.’
‘I haven’t heard a single nice thing about the man. Don’t you think that’s sad?’ the inspector asked. Odoardo put on his coat and sighed impatiently.
‘I have to go now,’ he said, finger on the light switch.
‘Of course,’ said Bordelli. The youth turned out the light and started descending the stairs, followed by the inspector, who was humming an aria of Rossini. They went out into the loggia and Odoardo closed the front door with a swift tug before turning the key. The air was freezing cold.
‘Goodbye, Inspector,’ said Odoardo, shaking his hand more firmly than usual. He then started up his Vespa and straddled it. Revving the engine a couple of times, he pushed it off its kick-stand. Bordelli came up to him, waving away the oily white smoke that had invaded the loggia.
‘I’ll be coming back to see you, Odoardo. I’ve still got something that belonged to your mother.’
‘You can give it to me now.’
‘Not yet,’ said the inspector.
‘This is far too mysterious for my taste.’
‘I’ve got my reasons.’
‘I’m sure you have.’
‘Why don’t you ask me why I won’t give it to you straight away?’
‘Because I know you would just answer me with a question,’ Odoardo said with a malicious smile. He turned the Vespa towards the courtyard and revved it again. The engine was misfiring and emitting a great deal of smoke.
‘Maybe it’s flooded,’ said Bordelli.
‘Maybe.’
‘When you’ve got a little more time, I’d still like to have that talk with you.’
‘Didn’t we just have it now?’
‘You didn’t give me enough time,’ said Bordelli, smiling. Odoardo looked at him, eyes flashing with hatred. He arranged the scarf around his neck, put on his goggles, and put the scooter into first gear. Making a final gesture of goodbye, he left, leaving a cloud of white smoke in his wake. Bordelli didn’t leave straight away. The place gave him a feeling of peace. Odoardo had left a light on, and it shone on a little Madonna built into the wall at the corner of the house. The dim lamp cast a lunar glow across the threshing floor. He put a cigarette between his lips, lit it and stood there listening to the sound of the Vespa heading down towards the Certosa. As he blew the smoke out of his mouth, he looked up. The sky was black and riddled with stars.
‘Do you know, my dear Inspector, where the word assassin comes from?’
‘No, Rosa, I don’t think so.’
‘And you’re supposed to be a policeman?’ she asked.
‘Should I be ashamed?’
‘If you like, I’ll tell you myself.’
‘Okay.’
‘Wait for me here …’
‘Who’s going anywhere?’ said Bordelli, with a glass in his hand and his feet propped up on the coffee table. Rosa ran into her bedroom and returned with a small book decorated with arabesques. She turned off all the lights except for a small reading lamp beside her. The coloured lights on the Christmas tree flashed on and off in clusters and created a sense of peace in the dimly lit room. Putting on her glasses, Rosa looked for the page and started reading in a fairy-tale tone of voice …
‘“In the year 1000, in a great oasis there lived a very powerful Arabian prince who was the envy of all. He had many enemies, and wanted an army of devoted followers in whom he could place his blind trust. For months he thought day and night how he might do this. He paced back and forth, and back and forth, without rest …”’ – Bordelli closed his eyes, the better to listen –
‘“until, one day, he had an idea. He summoned his most faithful servant and ordered him to dissolve a great deal of hashish in his men’s wine, and when they fell asleep he had them transported to a beautiful garden, full of flowers and fountains and lovely, sweet women, and food fit for a king, and great jugs of scented wine. The men enjoyed all these pleasures and felt happy. But that wine, too, was mixed with hashish, and soon they fell asleep again. When they reopened their eyes, they were back in their familiar world, and they felt sad. The prince had them summoned to him, and he looked them in the eyes and said: ‘You have been in the garden of valorous men, the place that awaits you if you die for me in battle. But for as long as you are alive, every time you kill one of my enemies, you shall return to that garden for a few hours.’ And so, in the hope of tasting those
pleasures again, the prince’s men became ferocious, ruthlessly killing anyone who dared threaten the prince. They would go out in groups and return with scimitars dripping with blood. Soon people began to call them the hachchaachii, that is, the hashish drinkers, and from this derives the word assassin …” Did you know that?’
‘No, I didn’t. But it’s a nice story.’
‘Have you ever smoked the stuff ?’ Rosa asked, a little smile on her lips.
‘No, I’ve never come across any.’
‘And what if your Rosina happened to have a little bit of weed?’ Bordelli gave her an amused look.
‘Finish your sentence.’
‘Would you smoke it with me?’
‘I should warn you that I’m a policeman.’
‘Would you arrest me before or after we smoked the joint?’
‘Where did you get it?
‘A girlfriend of mine gave it to me, but don’t ask me who, because I’m not a snitch,’ said Rosa, crossing two fingers over her lips.
‘What’s it like?’ asked Bordelli, curious.
‘It makes you feel light headed.’
‘So I would need some every day.’
‘It’s fun, and then you get hungry like you wouldn’t believe …’
‘That’s never been a problem for me.’
‘Do you want to try it or not?’ she asked impatiently.
‘Well, I guess, as a policeman, it’s my duty to get to know certain things from up close,’ said Bordelli, trying to remain serious. But he really was rather curious to know what sort of effect the stuff had. He didn’t want to remain in the dark on the subject, especially when dealing with people like Raffaele.
‘Yes or no?’ said Rosa, as insistent as a little girl.
‘All right.’
‘I knew it! I knew it!’ Rosa turned on a light in the corner and ran back to her room, hands fluttering. She returned a second later with a small wooden box.
‘Okay, now I’ll show you how you do it,’ she said.
‘My friend taught me.’ She kicked off her shoes and sat down on the carpet, crossing her legs like a fakir. Then she opened the box and took out the necessary items. Marijuana, rolling papers, and tobacco. Bordelli observed the procedure. Rosa took a small strip of cardboard about one third the length of a cigarette, rolled it up tightly and set it aside, then picked a magazine up from the table, placed it in her lap, and dumped some tobacco on it. Then she mixed some of the marijuana into the tobacco and slid the blend into a cigarette paper, put the little roll of cardboard at one end, and rolled it all up into a joint.