Death in Sardinia

by Marco Vichi

‘Pahté de fwah grah, volovahn de freedemair, soupallonyònh, dendo mahronh. And for wine, we have three different vintages of San Temillion. I’ll tell you the pudding later … Ehwahlàh!’34

  ‘Aside from your French, this all seems very serious,’ said Bordelli, stealthily loosening his belt a notch. Botta served the starters, and they all began eating in total silence, except for Dante, who was able to talk even when swallowing. Drinking the Saint-Emilion, Fabiani raised his eyebrows in pleasure. Very soon all trace of the pâté was gone from their plates, and when the last vol-au-vent disappeared from the tray, Dante proposed a round of applause for the cook. To avoid the embarrassment, Botta started removing the dirty plates and slipped into the kitchen to prepare the famous onion soup.

  The mood became increasingly more relaxed as the meal continued with a great deal of wine and no more neckties. Bordelli loosened his belt another notch. Diotivede was very pleased with the soup and did not turn down a second ladleful, or even a third.

  ‘Like it?’ asked Ennio, fishing for compliments.

  ‘Magnificent,’ said the doctor, rubbing his steamed-up spectacles with his napkin.

  Bordelli looked at him in amazement. ‘Diotivede, what is happening to you? This is the first time I’ve ever heard you say the word “magnificent” – except, of course, when talking about corpses.’

  ‘It may not look like it, but I am laughing, I assure you,’ the doctor said with a serious face. More dishes arrived, each more delicious than the last. When the third bottle was unveiled, Bordelli proposed a toast to all the years Botta had spent in the ‘hotel management schools’ of half the world. Dante stood up and went and kissed the cook on the head. Ennio downplayed his glory, saying that, all things considered, it was all pretty easy, though one could tell he was fibbing.

  By the end of the meal, they were all a bit light headed from the wine. The voices had increased in volume. The tablecloth was covered with stains and crumbs. There had been a great variety of toasts – to life, to psychoanalysis, to all the world’s prisons, to women …

  Ennio changed everyone’s drinking glass and brought two bottles of Sauternes to the table. Then he quickly left the room and returned with a great dome of savoy biscuits steeped in a white cream streaked with chocolate.

  ‘Sharlò o shocolah,’35 he said, and then filled the dessert plates. Everyone set to, mooing with pleasure. The cream melted in the mouth and left behind flavours that were probably even beneficial to the mind.

  ‘Ennio, you’re a disgrace,’ said Bordelli. The Sauternes needed no comment, but unfortunately was finished almost at once. The empty bottles – the corpses, as Ennio called them – were taken away, and in their place came the Calvados. Ennio was the drunkest of all of them, but held it pretty well.

  ‘In Paris they call it just “calvà”, and I bought two bottles of it,’ he said. They toasted in silence, then Dante called them to attention. He took the present for Bordelli out of his pocket, unwrapped it, and set it down in the middle of the table.

  ‘Guess what it is,’ he said. He turned it around several times so everyone could get a good look at it. Then he lit his cigar and leaned back in his chair, making it creak. The other four looked hard at the strange object. It was about half the size of a cake of Sole soap, made of wood, with two cavities shaped like half-eggs on top and, on one side, two holes through which one could see some little mirrors.

  ‘No idea …’ said Ennio.

  ‘An egg-holder?’ Bordelli guessed. Dante shook his head.

  ‘Binoculars,’ said Fabiani, and the inventor shook his head again. Diotivede said nothing, but one could see that he was thinking.

  ‘Something for seeing underwater,’ Botta said without much conviction.

  ‘You’re all way off. I’ll give you a hint. I’ve baptised it The Infallible,’ said Dante, shaking the ash off his cigar. Everyone sat there in silence for a few moments, staring at the little wooden box with holes in it.

  ‘I give up,’ Bordelli said finally.

  ‘Me too,’ Botta echoed him. Fabiani also threw in the towel. Dante blew his smoke upwards and laughed.

  ‘All right, I’ll tell you. It’s a—’

  ‘Wait,’ said Diotivede.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve figured it out,’ said Bordelli.

  The doctor emptied his glass and set it down on the table.

  ‘It’s to let you know whether eggs are fresh or not,’ he said.

  Dante burst into laughter and clapped his hands, then explained to the ignorant how it worked. You put the eggs in the appointed cavities, then placed the device under some light source, and through the holes, with the help of the mirrors, you could see the colour of the yolk through the shell. If it was bright orange, the egg was fresh; if it was pale orange, it wasn’t so fresh, and if white, the egg was rotten.

  ‘Without needing to break the egg …’ Bordelli said in admiration. It was the first invention of Dante’s he’d seen that actually served a purpose.

  ‘I want to patent it,’ Dante said under his breath.

  ‘So the thing’s mine now?’ asked Bordelli, holding The Infallible in the air.

  ‘Entirely yours. Now you can conquer any woman you want,’ said Dante, laughing. Seeing that the inventor’s glass was empty, Botta refilled it. Bordelli kept turning the brilliant invention round in his hand.

  ‘Ennio, have you got any eggs left?’

  ‘I used them all, Inspector.’

  ‘Too bad,’ said Bordelli, curious to see the device at work. After they had drunk another round of Calvados, the inspector suggested they each tell a story, as they had done at their dinner two years before.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked, looking at the others.

  ‘It’s fine with me,’ said Ennio. Fabiani was also in agreement, and Dante nodded, half closing his eyes. Diotivede sighed, as if he didn’t feel like participating, but in the end he also consented. Ennio asked if he could go first. And they all agreed.

  ‘In February of ’44 I was here in Florence, and I wasn’t a Fascist at all. The city was full of Germans and repubblichini.36 To tell you the truth, I had no idea what had happened, because I’d just got out of l’Asinara after a couple of years inside. They didn’t send me off to war because of a defect in my leg which I’d managed to invent and even got a certificate for, and when I walked I pretended to limp. There was a strange atmosphere in town, and people in the streets looked at each other with suspicion … Of course, I’m sure you all know what kind of atmosphere there was, but I’m just telling you this to set the mood …’

  The night had barely begun and already seemed well advanced. Ennio spoke slowly and softly, as if the act of telling a story calmed him down.

  ‘I lived alone. My parents had been evacuated to a village in the Val d’Orcia and were living in a convent. A family had moved into the flat next to mine, dad and mum and a little girl. They were nice but very reserved. It was almost like they were in hiding. They never made a peep. People said the father was a watchmaker but for some reason had lost his shop. The little girl was about ten years old. I often ran into her in the morning, queuing up for bread. One time we were in queues right next to each other. I said hello and noticed she was sulking. “What’s wrong, dear?” I asked her. She shrugged and said nothing, but turned red in the face as if she was ashamed of something. She was very pretty and had black, sort of curly hair. My queue moved forward a step, and she stayed back, so I turned and smiled at her. “Are you sad?” I asked, and she snapped at me angrily and said: “Don’t you know it’s bad to talk to Jews?” Her eyes were red. People started staring at us. “Are you Jewish?” I asked. Her face was livid with rage. “Leave me alone!” she shouted. “It’s bad to talk to Jews!” Even the people far down the line started looking at us, and it made me uncomfortable. I couldn’t just leave it at that. So I said to the girl, “No, come on, why would it be bad?” But she stamped her feet. “We’re wicked … we’re wicked and dirty!” she shouted, even angrier t
han before. I heard two or three men laughing. I got out of my queue and went and knelt in front of the girl. “What’s your name?” I asked. She stepped away as if dodging a kick. “Don’t touch me!” she screamed. “You mustn’t touch me!” And she ran away without buying any bread. I felt very bad about the whole thing, and so I left, too. When I got back home I felt almost like knocking on the watchmaker’s door, but I didn’t. A few days later I saw the little girl again on the street. She was carrying a big sack with bread in it and frowning as usual. “Ciao!” I said. “You still haven’t told me your name.” She kept on walking for about ten yards, and then she turned round and said, “My name’s Rebecca. What’s yours?” “My name is Ennio,” I said, going up to her, “but all my friends call me Botta.” “Why Botta?” she asked. I made a serious face and said, “Because wherever I go, everything explodes.”37 I said that because I didn’t know what else to say. Then the girl looked at me and said: “I don’t believe you, I don’t believe you,” and she ran away giggling. I was happy, because I’d made her laugh. So I started walking faster and caught up with her. She had a pretty blue ribbon in her hair. “What a pretty ribbon,” I said, “do you think a ribbon like that would look as nice on me too?” She thought about this for a minute, then burst out laughing with her hand over her mouth. “Why,” I said, “do you think I would look better with a red ribbon?” At that moment a lorry of militiamen came out from a side street. The little girl got scared and ran away to hide. The Fascists drove on, singing one of those songs of theirs at the top of their lungs. When they disappeared round the corner, the girl came out of her hole and looked at me as if she wanted to spit on me. Then she ran away. It hurt me to see her in such a state. A few days later somebody denounced her family to the authorities and the Fascists came to get them. I wasn’t there but was told about it by a neighbour. “They’re taking them to Germany,” he said. “What do you mean, Germany? Who told you that?” I said to him. “Everybody knows that,” he said. I asked about the little girl. He mumbled something, calling her a “little spider”, and slammed the door in my face. The next morning I went to talk to an acquaintance of mine who knew a lot of people. I asked him if he could help me save a Jewish family. He raised his eyebrows and mentioned the name of a certain monsignor at the basilica of Santa Croce. That priest might be able to do something, he said. I could ask him on his behalf, he said. And so I went to see this monsignor, and he listened to me with a sad smile on his face, as if he’d heard the same story a hundred times before. And I asked him if he could help me. The monsignor said he would try but couldn’t promise me anything. He said our best hope was to find a Fascist officer with a sense of decency, but the surest thing would be to supplement our request with some money. “These are terrible times,” he said, raising his eyes to the heavens. I asked him how much money we would need, and he said we could try with a hundred thousand lire. He also said I had to move fast, because all the Jews were being rounded up and might be shipped off to Germany any day now. I went back the next day with eighty thousand lire. I won’t tell you how I got my hands on it …’

  Ennio and the inspector exchanged a glance of understanding and a wry smile.

  ‘The monsignor put the money in a drawer and said to come back the next day. I couldn’t tell if the cash was for him or some Fascist, but I didn’t really care. When I went back, the priest pulled me inside and quickly closed the door behind me. “I tried,” he said. He’d done his best, he said, but the whole thing was very dangerous. The operation risked upsetting our German allies, especially since Italy had signed specific agreements regarding the turning over of Jews arrested by the Republic. “It’s politics,” he said, looking at me wide eyed. But he would make one last attempt that same night. When I went back, the monsignor looked very serious when he saw me. “What did they say?” I asked. He shook his head. “Only the girl,” he said. “They won’t give us the parents.” I said I could try to find more money, and he collapsed into a chair. He said money was of no use. That wasn’t the problem. It was very dangerous, he repeated; it was a delicate situation. Nobody wanted to be shot for treason, he said. The treaties between the Axis powers were the problem. I had to accept it. We could save the child, but not the parents. “It’s abominable, but it’s better than nothing,” he said, shaking his head. I realised that the man was sincere, that he wasn’t the one pocketing the money, and, to be honest with you, I was happy to know this. Two days later the little girl was released, and the following morning I went to the priest’s at dawn to get her. She was thinner and seemed tired, and she looked at me with hatred. Her clothes smelled dirty. I tried to stroke her hair, but she stepped back. The monsignor wished us luck and pushed the two of us out the door. I started walking, and she followed behind me like a puppy. It was very cold outside. I was afraid of running into some German patrol and had my ears pricked for the slightest noise. “Give me your hand,” I said. “That way you’ll seem like my daughter.” She gave me her hand, and it felt as small as a peach stone. I realised I didn’t know where to take her. I hadn’t thought of that. Letting her live at my place was out of the question. Too dangerous. Somebody might denounce me, and then they would come and take her away. And I couldn’t be looking after her all day. I had to work … I really didn’t know which way to turn. The little girl was getting more and more nervous and wasn’t paying any attention to me. Then I stood in front of her and asked: “Do you think I denounced your parents?” She just stared at me. Her eyes looked sunken, as if someone had pushed them back inside her head. I decided to leave her in peace and try to come up with a solution. I thought of a convent near San Casciano. “I’m going to take you to a nice place,” I said. We got on a bus. I was afraid we might get stopped by a German or Fascist patrol, but it went without a hitch. The bus let us off on a country road. And so we started walking, me in front and the girl behind. The convent was in a secluded spot full of cypresses. It didn’t look like the most cheerful place. I knocked and knocked at the door, and finally a nun came to a window grating. I explained the whole story to her in a few words, and she opened the door for us. But I couldn’t go in, she said. Convent rules. No men. So I put my hand on Rebecca’s back and pushed her in. “Goodbye,” I said. She went in without turning round, and the door closed behind her. I waited for a few minutes outside, listening. I heard the nun say: “What is your name, my child?” And Rebecca’s answer made me laugh. “My name is Botta,” she said. “Because wherever I go, everything explodes.”’

  Ennio paused to empty his glass, then said:

  ‘I never saw her again.’

  The first bottle of Calvados was almost finished. Ennio opened the second and refilled everyone’s glass. All five of them sat in silence, as if to digest the story of the little girl.

  ‘Now it’s someone else’s turn,’ Botta said at last.

  ‘Would you like to continue?’ Bordelli asked, looking at Fabiani. The psychoanalyst’s eyes were red from all the smoke in the room.

  ‘If nobody minds I’d like to talk for a minute about my wife. She died twenty years ago, right after the Liberation. She’d survived the bombings and round-ups, and on 25 October 1945, she was run over by an American jeep. She’d spotted from afar an old friend she hadn’t seen since the start of the war and was so excited that she crossed the road without looking. She was a wonderful woman. Gemma was her name. It hadn’t taken her long to discover all my weaknesses. But she loved me very much and accepted me just as I was. She never tried to change me. And in this way she showed me a strength I never had. She was very beautiful; she looked like an actress. I still remember her smile … It was like seeing a light come on … But, I’m sorry, I only mentioned Gemma because I wish she was here with me tonight. I don’t want to ruin your evening with an old man’s sorrows.’

  ‘To Gemma,’ Ennio said softly, raising his glass.

  ‘To Gemma,’ they all repeated, and drank. Diotivede set down his glass and, with a pensive expression, started breaking a toothpi
ck into little bits. He seemed to be brooding over a none-too-cheerful story. But then again, he nearly always had that same expression. Dante puffed hard on his cigar and blew the smoke upwards.

  ‘Would you like to go next?’ Bordelli asked, looking at him.

  ‘First I need more fuel,’ said Dante, pushing his already empty glass to the middle of the table. Ennio took care of refilling it. The inventor thanked him with a nod, took a little sip of Calvados, and started talking.

  ‘In ’57 an important developer commissioned a job from me. A very long time ago I took a degree in civil engineering. I’m not sure I’ve ever told you that. And for this project I was supposed to do the necessary calculations for adding a fourth floor to an already existing building that had been lived in for years. The building was to be reinforced with a new support pillar at the centre of the underground garage. I specialised in techniques of pre-stressed concrete but had never actually put them into practice. I’ll spare you the technical explanations, but with that system one could make pillars ten times smaller than the conventional ones with the same load-bearing capacity. So I got down to work and a few weeks later, I brought my design to the builder. By my calculations, using pre-stressed concrete we could make a square pillar forty centimetres by forty, leaving the usable garage space essentially unchanged, whereas with the traditional materials, that same pillar would have been two metres square, perhaps even more. The builder gave me a puzzled look. The new technique wasn’t very well known yet. I had to explain everything in detail several times, and in the end he accepted my idea. And so we ordered the pillar, and only after having set it perfectly in place did the construction on the new fourth floor begin. The weeks went by. I went often to that basement to check my beautiful pillar. Sometimes I would look at it and think that it really was too small for all the weight it was carrying. But everything seemed to be going well. When the fourth floor was finished I felt immensely satisfied. But then one evening, around supper time, I got a phone call from the builder. He said there were problems, and he seemed rather upset. Great cracks had appeared all around the pillar. Not little fissures, mind you, but cracks big enough to stick your finger in. I felt my hair standing on end. We arranged to meet at once. I felt terrible. I’d had too much faith in that bloody pre-stressed concrete. So I dashed into town and found the builder gloomily pacing back and forth in front of the building. When I approached him, he shot me a dark glance. He wouldn’t even shake my hand, and we set off for the garage in silence. My heart was racing. When the builder opened the door, it was pitch black inside. We walked towards the light switch, and when the light came on, do you know what I saw?’