Death in Sardinia

by Marco Vichi

  ‘And so? Did you ever see her again?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  Bordelli looked at his watch: half past three. Dante had just left, an hour later than the others. The inspector looked out the window. A fine, freezing snow was falling. He lay down in bed and turned out the light. Contrary to habit, he’d only pulled the shutters to, and the glow of a street lamp filtered through. He lay there for a spell with his eyes open, watching the shadows on the wall. He’d eaten and drunk a lot, but felt light. He lit his last cigarette, this one the hand-rolled kind, and smoked it slowly, watching the lighted end burn red in the semi-darkness. He thought about Maria Conchita, trying to imagine her, young and beautiful, hungry for freedom. Who knew whether she was still alive or lying dreamless underground.

  He snuffed out the butt and got comfortable, and as usual started travelling through his memories. The moments before falling asleep were always peopled by long-departed images. The last one that passed through his mind was his mother’s face at the moment she’d heard Mussolini’s voice on the radio cry: ‘War!’

  25 December

  He woke up the following morning in a pleasant state of numbness, the taste of apples still in his mouth from the Calvados. Yawning, he thought distractedly of Odoardo with the scissors in his hand … And at that moment he heard a clatter of dishes. Slipping his trousers on, he went to investigate. There, in the sun-drenched kitchen, was Ennio washing up, fresh as a rose. He’d already made a good deal of progress.

  ‘Coffee, Inspector?’The pot was already waiting on the stove.

  ‘What time is it, anyway?’ Bordelli asked, running a hand over his eyes.

  ‘Almost eleven. And the sun is out, despite the Christian Democrats.’

  The sky was blue and cloudless. Ennio dried his hands and lit the flame under the espresso pot. Bordelli sat down, elbows on the table. He felt extremely lazy. ‘My dear Ennio, I really didn’t know you could cook like that … I’m speechless.’

  ‘Next time I can make you a Turkish dinner, or even a Portuguese one.’

  ‘Have you been in jail in those places too?’

  ‘I did two years in Erzurum and one in Coimbra, for smuggling.’

  ‘I’m beginning to be convinced that jail is good for you, Botta.’

  ‘I’ve always had a passion for cooking, Inspector. Sometimes I feel more like a cook than a thief.’

  ‘Have you ever been arrested in Romania?’

  ‘No, though I had a close call once.’

  ‘Too bad,’ said Bordelli.

  ‘Thanks, Inspector.’

  ‘I only meant that I’m curious about Romanian cookery.’

  ‘Nobody’s going to lock up Botta ever again, Inspector. I’ve made myself a promise.’

  ‘No more crime?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. But I’m getting on in years and have to start being more savvy when I work.’

  ‘Makes perfect sense to me.’

  Ennio put the litle cups on the table and dropped into the chair in front of Bordelli. They carried on talking about jails, cooking and women. There weren’t many other subjects left to discuss. It was already past noon when the inspector went to shave and get dressed. Botta started washing the last pots, singing a tune of Celantano’s to himself. Before going out, Bordelli poked his head round the kitchen door.

  ‘Ciao, Ennio, thanks again for everything.’

  ‘Have a good day, Inspector. When you want to organise another dinner, just give me a holler.’

  ‘I’ll call you soon,’ said Bordelli. He went out and got into the Beetle. With the bright sun shining, he felt like going for a nice little drive along some country roads. He decided to go as far as Impruneta again, by way of the Bagnolo road. Maybe if he asked around again in town he could find out if there were any old houses for sale that fitted his needs … and didn’t cost too much. After the rain and sleet of the previous days, it was nice to see such a clear blue sky. It was Christmas Day, and there weren’t many people out. At that hour they were all at table. He wasn’t even hungry. He drove slowly across the city, thinking of the stories he’d heard the previous evening … Fabiani’s wife, the little Jewish girl, Maria Conchita. He felt the need for a cigarette and, holding the steering wheel still with his knees, he managed to light one.

  He drove past the Certosa and after Villa Bottai, instead of proceeding straight for Tavernuzze, he took the Quintole road up the hill. Then he stopped almost at once, in front of the enormous gate of a villa. He’d had an idea. Leaving the motor running, he tried to unravel the fraying fabric on a sleeve of his raincoat and at last managed to extract a thread some three inches long. Then he drove off again. He rolled along slowly, and a little over a mile down the road, he turned onto Odoardo’s unpaved driveway. As he neared the house he noticed the Vespa parked under the loggia. He left his car on the threshing floor, and before turning off the engine, revved it twice to make himself heard. He looked at the windows, but nobody appeared. Perhaps the boy had stayed up late and was still asleep. Bordelli got out of the car and went round the house to the back. He was in no hurry. He stopped and gazed for a few moments at the olive grove and the hills covered with woods and vineyards. The still-wet countryside glimmered like ice, but the sun was almost strong enough to warm oneself by. He went back towards the house and looked through a grille-covered window. Inside he saw a big earthenware jug with a wooden lid. It must be olive oil, he thought. He would have loved to make his own oil, with his own olives. But while waiting to make the big move, he could at least do as his father had done … He could go and buy a few gallons of good oil from a peasant. He could hardly stand the industrial crap he bought in town any more. He leaned his shoulder against the corner of the house. The bricks were warm. Breathing deep the cold country air, he decided not to light another cigarette. Then he heard a window open over his head. Looking up, he saw the hostile face of Odoardo Beltempo pop out.

  ‘Hello, Odoardo. I’ve come to wish you a happy Christmas.’

  ‘What do you want this time?’

  ‘I was just driving around and ended up here. Could I come inside for a minute?’

  ‘I’m about to go out.’

  ‘Then I’ll wait for you down here.’

  Odoardo stayed there for a moment, staring at him, eyes burning with anger, then closed the window with a thud. Bordelli made for the threshing floor. While waiting, he started studying the carcass of the old Ardea for the umpteenth time. It had white sidewalled tyres on rusted wheel rims.

  Some minutes later he heard a door slam and turned round. Odoardo was coming towards him, looking rather fed up. He stopped a few yards away, hands in his pockets.

  ‘Don’t you think you’re taking this a little too far, Inspector?’

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Don’t you think you’re taking this a little too far?’ Odoardo repeated.

  ‘In what sense?’ asked Bordelli.

  ‘Why did you come?’

  ‘It wasn’t premeditated. My horse brought me here.’

  ‘Your horse must be pretty bizarre.’

  ‘That’s quite possible. Going anywhere interesting?’ Odoardo stood there without moving, hands thrust deep into his pockets.

  ‘Wherever I feel like going.’

  ‘Into town?’

  ‘Why do you keep asking me all these questions?’ the boy asked. Bordelli gave a hint of a smile, then turned to look at the distant hills covered with vineyards and olive groves.

  ‘I just love this sun. I never saw a Christmas like this in all my life …’

  ‘As usual you’ve got nothing to say to me, Inspector.’ Bordelli pulled out a cigarette, stuck it between his lips without lighting it, and looked the lad in the eye.

  ‘You know what I think, Odoardo?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That we shouldn’t try to be what we are not. And you know why?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Because we might become dangerous. Have you ever though
t about it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Try it some time.’

  ‘I’ll think about it all night,’ Odoardo said. Then he turned and started walking towards the loggia. Bordelli followed him, walking slowly, fumbling with the thread that hung from the sleeve of his raincoat.

  ‘Where’d you go to primary school, Odoardo?’ he asked distractedly. The boy turned and shot him a malevolent glance.

  ‘Was that your important question, Inspector?’

  ‘I must admit I sometimes ask questions without knowing why.’

  ‘That’s very interesting. Why don’t you continue your little game with someone else?’ Odoardo asked, putting on his gloves.

  ‘Going to see your girlfriend?’ Bordelli asked.

  ‘Wrong. I have to go and kill a loan shark and I’m running late.’

  ‘You see? I was right. Deep down, the subject does interest you,’ the inspector said.

  ‘It’s all I ever think about,’ said Odoardo, buttoning up his overcoat. Bordelli could still feel a hint of a smile on his lips. He liked this intelligent, stubborn kid.

  ‘Tell me something, Odoardo. If it was you who killed Badalamenti … don’t worry, I’m just saying this as an example … If it was you who killed a man as despicable as that, how would you feel now? Guilty or innocent? I’m just curious.’

  ‘You’ve already asked me that.’

  ‘Yes, but you didn’t give me an answer.’ Odoardo remained impassive.

  ‘I’m not very good at these things,’ he said, opening the scooter’s fuel injector.

  ‘It doesn’t seem like such a hard question to me,’ the inspector said, all the while pretending he was trying to tear away the thread hanging from his sleeve.

  ‘You never told me how many Nazis you killed, either,’ said Odoardo.

  ‘You shouldn’t confuse matters. That was war.’ They stood there for a moment in silence. The birds cried loudly. They sounded as if they were being tortured.

  ‘You know something, Odoardo? I’ve known killers who were convinced they had acted properly … and at times I’ve almost caught myself agreeing with them. I’m not joking. But if everyone acted that way, we’d be in a pretty nasty pickle, don’t you think?’

  ‘I’m already late, Inspector. If you have nothing serious to tell me, I’d like to go.’

  ‘Absolutely, be my guest … Oh, but could you do me a little favour first?’

  ‘What?’ said Odoardo, sighing. Bordelli raised the sleeve of his trench coat and took the thread between his fingers.

  ‘Could you help me cut this? It keeps rubbing my wrist, and it always feels like a spider,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘I haven’t got any scissors.’

  ‘I saw some shears here somewhere,’ said Bordelli, going under the loggia. Odoardo walked round the Vespa and went to get the shears. He went up to the inspector with a sullen expression.

  ‘Here,’ he said, handing him the shears.

  ‘Did I ever tell you how Badalamenti was killed?’

  ‘Let’s be quick, please.’

  ‘Could you cut it for me? Otherwise I’ll have to take off my coat and waste even more of your time.’ Odoardo practically snatched the shears out of his hand.

  ‘Give me your sleeve,’ he said, trying to remain calm. The inspector held out his arm.

  ‘Try to cut it at the bottom, otherwise it’ll just start fraying again.’

  ‘Please don’t move,’ said Odoardo. And he grabbed the thread with his right hand and cut it with the shears in his left. Bordelli felt a shudder run down the back of his neck, but feigned a placid smile.

  ‘There,’ said Odoardo, tossing the shears on to a wicker chair.

  ‘Thanks ever so much. Now I’ll let you go and see your girlfriend.’

  ‘I hope this is the last time I ever see you, Inspector,’ the youth said, getting on his scooter.

  ‘Do you ever think about time, Odoardo? Don’t you think it’s quite a mystery?’ said Bordelli.

  ‘I don’t think a policeman should try to be a philosopher. He might become dangerous,’ said Odoardo.

  ‘I entirely agree,’ said the inspector. Odoardo started up the Vespa, turned it towards the courtyard, and stopped in front of Bordelli.

  ‘Why don’t you speak clearly, Inspector? It would all be so much simpler,’ he said, letting the motor idle. Bordelli rested his hand on the Vespa’s headlight in a friendly gesture.

  ‘You’re lucky to live in a place like this, Odoardo. I have to say I envy you … But did you really not know Totuccio Badalamenti?’ he asked point blank, looking the youth in the eye. He saw him tremble slightly, lips contracted.

  ‘What kind of game is this, Inspector?’ Odoardo asked.

  ‘I’m not sure it’s a game,’ said Bordelli, putting his hand on the boy’s arm. Odoardo put the scooter in gear and the Vespa leapt forward.

  ‘You should have the clutch adjusted,’ said the inspector.

  ‘Thanks for the advice.’

  ‘You know what, Odoardo? I have a theory all my own about killers … But I’ll tell you about it next time, otherwise you’ll be late …’ Odoardo moved his elbow slightly, just enough to release it from Bordelli’s hand.

  ‘Goodbye, Inspector,’ he said. Popping the clutch, he left in a flash, followed by the usual cloud of oily smoke. Bordelli felt like staying a little longer to enjoy the beautiful day. He slowly circled the house again, to the back, and started walking around, gazing at the countryside glistening in the sun. He liked just standing there, admiring the spectacle, he liked the sound of the chickens scratching about in the coop, pecking the ground. He wondered whether this was a sign of old age. He even liked to hear the birds screaming. Sitting down on the bottom of an upended demijohn, he lit the cigarette he had between his lips. And he smoked it slowly, savouring it, eyes on the horizon, listening distractedly to the chickens scratch about …

  After Christmas lunch with his aunts, uncles and cousins, Pietrino rang Sonia. Since it was a holiday, the call cost less and they could purr all they wanted without worrying about running up the bill. He still told her nothing about the whole suicide case, mostly because he didn’t feel like hearing her tell him that a convalescing policeman should stay at home reading by the fire. She started saying silly things in her beautiful Sicilian accent and the raspy voice she used at times, which never failed to shake Piras to his foundations. Especially now, after they hadn’t seen each other for quite some time.

  The relatives went out to visit some friends on the other side of town, waving goodbye to Pietrino as they left. They would return late that afternoon, and everyone would eat together again. After half an hour of talking, Piras kissed Sonia goodbye and went back to the kitchen. His mother was preparing more pastries and humming.

  ‘What song is that?’ Pietrino asked.

  ‘I don’t know what it’s called … How’s Francesca doing?’

  ‘Francesca who?’

  ‘Your girlfriend.’

  ‘Ah … yes, she’s fine,’ said Pietrino. He sat in the armchair by the fire and started reading Maigret. After some twenty pages, he set the book down, listening to the fire, and dozed off.

  Around four o’clock Pina and Giovanni knocked at the door, carrying a tray full of amaretti and papassinos. With them were also Giovanni’s cousin and his wife, who’d come from Solarussa. He was short and stocky, she short and slender, thin as an anchovy. When they stood one beside the other, he looked as if he could snap her in two like a sprig of rosemary. Pina set the tray down on the table, as Maria put another pot of coffee on the fire. A few minutes later Gavino came in from the field, to which he’d fled right after eating. In winter the days were short and he needed to make the most of every hour of light, even on Christmas Day.

  Maria poured the coffee into little cups. The wind was blowing outside, and every so often the chimney howled. They chatted of this and that, and after a while Gavino started talking about the war. Pietrino had heard those stories m
any times over, but whenever his father spoke about that period, people listened. His tales had more than their share of blood, and the power of lived experience.