Death in Sardinia

by Marco Vichi

  ‘I agree with you, my dear Botta, but apparently someone else likes things this way.’

  ‘Anyway, I’m not ashamed to be a thief, because I’ve never robbed anyone who had less than me. I go and take from the rich what I haven’t got but am entitled to. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘You talk like a Sardinian bandit.’

  ‘Even Don Bencini says that whoever robs because he’s hungry goes to heaven.’

  ‘Who’s Don Bencini?’

  ‘A priest with bollocks, and a man who doesn’t talk much but takes action.’

  ‘The one who goes around to prisons talking to crooks like you?’

  ‘That’s the one … One time he told me that if Jesus Christ could see the way Italy is today, he’d ring his daddy and tell him to drown the place.’

  ‘I think he’s right.’

  ‘We could use a lot more priests like that … instead of those fat puppets with double chins in gold vestments …’ Ennio was standing with the two wet cups in his hands, waving them around in the air as he spoke. Bordelli buttoned his shirt sleeves.

  ‘So, what exactly did you study?’ he asked.

  ‘I did nearly a year of Letters.’

  ‘You don’t say.’

  ‘My father wanted me to become a teacher or something like that.’ They both smiled. The inspector pulled up his braces and took out his wallet.

  ‘Let’s get to more serious matters, Ennio,’ he said, putting a ten-thousand lira note in Botta’s pocket.

  ‘Oh, shit … I forgot the wine, Inspector.’

  ‘In what sense?’

  ‘To do things properly, we should have French wine, which costs a lot of money … But if you like, I could get something from the Piedmont.’

  ‘You’re the chef, and if you’ve decided on French wine, there must be a reason. Here’s another five thousand.’ The coffee started bubbling up, and Botta still hadn’t found anything with which to dry the cups. He waved them around in the air another couple of times, with gusto, then set them down on the table. Using the sleeve of his sweater as a pot-holder, he picked up the coffee pot and filled the little cups.

  ‘Not to brag, but get a whiff of this coffee,’ he said. The inspector opened a cupboard, took out a sugar bowl, set this down on the table, then took a teaspoon out of a drawer … Ennio followed his movements with a look of concern. When he saw the inspector about to put the sugar in his cup, he jumped.

  ‘What are you doing, Inspector?!’ he yelled.

  ‘Shit, Ennio, you scared me.’

  ‘Just tell me one thing: do you want to drink coffee or slop?’ Bordelli was still holding the teaspoon in midair. He emptied it back in the sugar bowl.

  ‘Did I do something wrong?’

  ‘I thought you took it bitter, Inspector, otherwise I would have sweetened it myself.’

  ‘What, do you want to be my mother now?’

  ‘So you refuse to understand! The sugar must be put in the cup before, not after … And no spoons, either. If you move the sugar, it can do damage. At the most you can make a little circling motion … like so.’ And he started gently swirling the coffee in the little cup. Ending the demostration, he grabbed the inspector’s coffee and dumped it back into the pot. Bordelli was watching him with curiosity.

  ‘And what difference does it make?’

  ‘The same difference there is between beer and cow piss,’ said Ennio. He put half a teaspoon of sugar in Bordelli’s empty cup, then poured the steaming coffee on top of it.

  ‘Here, Inspector. This is probably the first proper cup of coffee you’ve ever had in your life.’

  ‘And where did you learn that?’

  ‘I spent a couple of months in Naples as a kid.’

  ‘Inside or outside?’

  ‘Inside. Circulation of false banknotes.’ Bordelli took a sip of coffee.

  ‘Not bad,’ he said. Ennio seemed satisfied.

  ‘You see, Inspector, putting the sugar in first doesn’t get rid of the bitterness, and what kind of bloody coffee is it if it’s not bitter? But it does get rid of the really bitter part that tastes like … I dunno … I mean … it leaves the good bitterness and gets rid of the bad.’ The inspector drank the last of his coffee and went to put his cup in the sink.

  ‘You’re right, it gets rid of the nasty bitterness, the one that tastes burnt,’ he said, heading out of the kitchen. Ennio followed him to the front door.

  ‘One of these days I’m going to teach you how to make pasta with butter and Parmesan, Inspector. It sounds like a piece of piss but it’s actually one of the hardest. It’s all a question of timing.’

  ‘One is never done learning … Ciao, Botta. We’re in your hands for Christmas dinner.’

  ‘Just leave it to me.’

  ‘But don’t forget the onion soup.’

  ‘It’s pronounced onyònh, Inspector, onyònh.’ The sky was purple and looked as if it were about to fall down on to the city at any moment. The needle on the barometer was practically horizontal, and Bordelli had the impression that he could feel the air weighing down on his shoulders. The moment he entered the office he grabbed the telephone and dialled a number. He let it ring at least ten times, and at last he heard someone pick up.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Good morning, Odoardo. Were you asleep?’

  ‘Who the hell is this?’

  ‘It’s Bordelli. Did I wake you?’ He heard a sigh at the other end, then silence.

  ‘You still there, Odoardo?’

  ‘What do you want this time, Inspector?’ asked Odoardo, thick-tongued with sleep.

  ‘I’ve got something to show you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ll have to do me the favour of coming here.’

  ‘Where’s here?’

  ‘Police headquarters. Ask for me at the guardhouse.’

  ‘I really don’t understand why,’ said Odoardo, annoyed.

  ‘It’ll only take a minute. But don’t go back to sleep. I’ll be waiting for you.’ Bordelli hung up, confident he would see him soon. He rang Mugnai on the internal line and asked him if a parcel had arrived from the courthouse. The inspector had phoned De Marchi the previous day and asked him please to send him the scissors used in the Badalamenti murder the following morning.

  ‘They’ve just arrived this minute, Inspector. I’ll bring them up.’ A minute later Mugnai entered the room.

  ‘Here you go, Inspector. I also brought the post,’ he said, setting a flat cardboard box and a few envelopes down on the desk.

  ‘Thanks, Mugnai. In a little while a young man should be arriving, and he’ll ask for me. His name is Beltempo—’

  ‘Well, let’s hope he stays for a while …’ Mugnai chuckled.21 The inspector sighed.

  ‘You really ought to work on your witticisms, Mugnai. You seem to be the only one who laughs at them.’

  ‘Just making a little light conversation, Inspector, since I’m shut up all day long in that bloody little boo—’

  ‘You’re forgiven, Mugnai, but let me finish what I was saying,’ Bordelli said, interrupting him.

  ‘Sorry, sir, go ahead.’

  ‘When the kid arrives, I want you to let me know, but don’t let him in immediately. Create some sort of obstacle for him, make him wait a little … I’m sure you can think of something … Just make him a little nervous before you bring him here.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Inspector, I’ll take care of it.’

  ‘But don’t overdo it, mind.’

  ‘I know exactly what to do,’ said Mugnai with a knowing air. He liked having a mission to accomplish. After he left, Bordelli settled a few bureaucratic matters, signed a few documents, made a few phone calls, but most of the time he was thinking about Odoardo. He could hardly wait to have him there in front of him.

  He went over to the window and started looking outside, head full of useless thoughts. The sky was darker than ever. A dense, fine rain started to fall. The drops left long streaks on the glass which looked
like cuts. After only a few minutes he could already hear the dripping of the broken gutter pouring water on to the cobblestones of the courtyard. Bordelli was also thinking about the left-handed Raffaele, his cowboylike grit and his dreams. Perhaps he ought to have summoned him to the police station too, but he didn’t feel the need to do so yet. For the moment he wanted only to have a little chat with Odoardo. There was something about him that didn’t add up, and he wanted to have a better sense of whether or not the kid was lying. He heard the internal phone ring and ran to pick up.

  ‘He’s here, Inspector,’ Mugnai said in a mysterious whisper.

  ‘Good, now it’s down to you,’ Bordelli said, hanging up. He still had a little more time. Opening the box, he picked up the transparent plastic bag that held the murder weapon. Attached to one of the scissor holes was a little card that said: Exh. no. 1. The depth to which the blades had sunk in the victim’s neck was still visible, marked by a line of dried blood. The inspector made room on his desk surface by pushing the disorder to one side with a sweep of the arm, then placed the scissors right in the middle. Waiting for Odoardo, he started pacing back and forth in the room, fiddling with an unlit cigarette. From time to time he would start humming a tune without knowing what it was. It was certainly true that music had changed a great deal from the time he was young. There was something angry in the music of today, and there must be a reason for it. But it wasn’t just the music that was changing, it was everything. It seemed as if young people had suddenly become fed up with everything that had anything to do with the older generation. Perhaps it was their way of throwing off the burden of a past that they themselves had not suffered, and looking forward. One thing was certain: they could no longer bear hearing the older people’s complaints about the war and having to queue up for bread. The tears to be cried had already been shed. Now it was time to start living again, and having fun. Maybe they were right …

  There was a knock at the door, and Bordelli gave a start. Mugnai poked his head inside.

  ‘Inspector, there’s a young man here to see you,’ he said, winking.

  ‘Let him in.’ Mugnai turned round.

  ‘You can go in,’ he said. Odoardo came forward with a hard face and stopped in the doorway.

  ‘You took such a long time to get here, I thought you’d gone back to sleep,’ said Bordelli, gesturing to Mugnai to close the door. The youth approached the desk. His hair was wet with rain and he looked quite cross.

  ‘That policeman is an animal,’ he said, looking back at the closed door.

  ‘He’s just doing his job,’ the inspector said. Odoardo looked down, saw the bloodied scissors, and his eyes seemed to light up … Or perhaps it was only an impression of Bordelli’s. Perhaps he was watching him too intensely or had already made up his mind. And the fact remained that the killer was left-handed, and Odoardo was not.

  ‘What is it you have to tell me, Inspector?’ the youth asked.

  ‘Sorry about the rain. Would you like something to dry yourself with? The bathroom’s right here next door.’

  ‘I just want to make this brief,’ Odoardo said curtly, shooting a cold glance at Bordelli. The inspector made a friendly gesture, indicating the chair.

  ‘Please sit down.’

  ‘I’m perfectly fine standing, thank you. What did you wish to tell me?’ Bordelli started patting himself all over as if looking for something.

  ‘You wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette? I seem to have finished mine,’ he said. This time it was true.

  ‘I never smoke in the morning,’ the youth said. Bordelli shrugged.

  ‘Good. That way, I won’t smoke either.’

  ‘I don’t have much time, Inspector.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get to it. Have you ever been in a place like this before?’

  ‘I’ve never had the pleasure.’ The inspector got up, calmly circled his desk, stopped in front of Odoardo, and spoke almost into his face.

  ‘In your opinion, Odoardo, am I a good policeman?’

  ‘What kind of question is that?’ said Odoardo, taking a step back. Bordelli smiled serenely.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down?’

  ‘I’d rather stand.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ As if he had nothing more to say, Bordelli started pacing about the room, hands in his pockets, looking out the window. The rain was coming down more insistently. He heard the boy huff with impatience behind him.

  ‘What do you want, Inspector? Just tell me without beating around the bush, so we can get it over with.’ Bordelli turned towards him and looked at him thoughtfully.

  ‘I’d like to go over something with you,’ he said.

  ‘I can hardly wait.’

  ‘Listen to me carefully. We’re going to pretend that a certain young man, whom we’ll call Odoardo for the sake of convenience, committed that murder … You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Totuccio Badalamenti, the loan shark who lived in Piazza del Carmine.’

  ‘I’ve already told you I don’t know him,’ said Odoardo. Bordelli raised a hand and smiled.

  ‘And I believe you. Do you believe me when I say I believe you?’ Odoardo’s eyes looked darker than usual.

  ‘I just want to know clearly what you want from me. I think it’s my right,’ he said, trying to remain calm.

  ‘Look, you have no reason to get upset …’

  ‘I’m not upset. I just want to know what I’m doing here. Is that so unusual?’ he said, slowly turning his face away. He is upset, thought Bordelli, starting again to pace slowly back and forth.

  ‘Let’s say that I’d like for us to reconstruct, together, the narrative sequence of that murder, and perhaps even make a few conjectures as to the killer’s motives and psychological make-up. What do you say, do you feel like trying?’

  ‘Will it make any difference if I don’t?’ asked Odoardo. The inspector stopped pacing.

  ‘I’m asking you as a personal favour, Odoardo. You can’t refuse.’

  ‘Let’s be quick about it.’

  ‘Don’t worry. There’s a time for everything, my grandfather used to say.’ Bordelli saw a flash of hatred in the boy’s eyes and resumed his pacing, utterly relaxed, hands in his pockets.

  ‘Certainly this hypothetical Odoardo had serious reasons for killing Badalamenti, and that is probably where we should start,’ the inspector said, but then he stopped and waited for the lad to make the next move.

  ‘I’m listening,’ said Odoardo, looking indifferently at the bloodied scissors. He already seemed calmer. Bordelli took one hand out of his pocket and hooked it behind his neck.

  ‘Let’s take a step back. Let’s imagine that after his mother’s death, our imaginary Odoardo received a visit from a guy he’d never seen before. A nasty bloke with a “fuck you” attitude … Are you following me?’

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s not a long story, but it’s worth our while to tell it slowly. Now listen closely. This nasty bloke tells Odoardo that his mother signed some promissory notes made out to him, and that, by law, the debts of the deceased are passed on to the heirs … He tells him that the payments are in arrears and that there will be trouble if they are not made at once. He might take away Odoardo’s country hovel, but even that may not be enough to pay off the debt. And if he won’t pay it off, there’ll be hell to pay. It really sounds like a threat. Odoardo feels crushed by this news … But that’s not the end of it. The usurer also says something offensive about his mother and mentions some compromising photographs which, if made public, could sully her memory. And, in fact, Odoardo realises that it was because of those photographs that his mother was forced to sign those promissory notes in the first place. A sort of blackmail to be paid off in instalments … It’s enough to piss a man off, wouldn’t you say?’ the inspector asked, stopping in front of the lad.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about? What photographs?’ said Odoardo, newly upse
t. The inspector took advantage of this to look him straight in the eye.

  ‘You’re not interested in the promissory notes?’

  ‘I’m not interested in anything you’re saying,’ said Odoardo, clenching his teeth. Bordelli smiled.

  ‘Wait before you say that. But let’s get back to our story … Odoardo thus comes to know some unpleasant things, and he comes to know them from a man like Badalamenti, with that ugly face … You remember Badalamenti’s face, don’t you?’

  ‘I believe I’ve already told you six or seven times that I don’t know him.’

  ‘You’re right, I’m sorry, I got a little distracted there … But are you sure you never went to Badalamenti’s flat? Not even once?’

  ‘Is that a serious question?’

  ‘I should think so.’

  ‘Then I will answer in all seriousness: no, I never went there. Not once. I didn’t know him, I never saw him, I have no idea what kind of face he had, I’ve never even heard mention of him. Have I left anything out?’

  ‘Excellent. To continue, let us imagine that our friend Odoardo is rather frightened by this visit and promises Badalamenti that he will pay off the debt as soon as possible. Naturally, however, he wants the photographs of his mother in return. The blackmailer tells him he will get them back only when he has paid everything in full, down to the last lira. So the young man asks how much his mother’s debt amounts to, and is given a figure with so many zeros that his hair stands on end. Badalamenti is in a hurry, sets the due dates, and leaves, telling the lad not to do anything silly … Everything clear so far?’

  ‘Crystal clear,’ said Odoardo, folding his arms over his chest.

  ‘Good. Now we’ll pretend that one day our imaginary Odoardo goes to see Badalamenti to pay off one of the promissory notes, and he suddenly gets the idea to ask the shark for the photos of his mother, which he has never even seen. Badalamenti counts the money and then shakes his head. He is adamant. No photographs until Odoardo has paid up. Odoardo swears he will pay off his mother’s debts and continues to ask him for the pictures, but Badalamenti laughs in his face. Odoardo insists further and says he would at least like to see them. But Badalamenti won’t listen to reason and orders the kid to get the hell out of there and, as if that weren’t enough, says something unpleasant about his mother. Then something happens. Odoardo’s face changes, he feels overcome with rage. Badalamenti invites him to clear out, but he doesn’t budge. Try to imagine our Odoardo … On the outside, he seems calm, but inside he’s furious. All he can see is a fine pair of scissors in the pen-holder on the desk, a big pair of pointed scissors, nice and long … the very same ones you see over there … Had you noticed them?’