Death in Sardinia

by Marco Vichi

  ‘She’s a witch,’ said Rosa, biting her lips.

  ‘Hush! She’ll hear you.’ The old woman continued walking, head down, as if she hadn’t seen anyone. When she was directly below the embankment, she looked up and said: ‘Ciao, Andrea, don’t be such a stranger.’ And she kept on going. Everybody turned and looked at Andrea, but he bit his lips and said he’d never seen her before in his life. They all called him a liar, saying he was just playing games, then they all got up and went down below to follow the old woman. They ran down the path and, rounding the bend, came to a halt. The woman was nowhere to be seen. They looked around. The spot where they stood afforded an open view of the entire valley and some hundred yards down the path … But there was no sign of the crone anywhere. And yet only a few seconds had passed. Splitting up into two groups, they started running in different directions. Three of them descended the slope, jumping from terrace to terrace, while the other two continued down the path.They ran hard, hoping to catch the old woman up and prove to themselves that what they were thinking was wrong. But the crone had vanished. When they regrouped, they all started walking home in silence, repeatedly looking back. They decided to find out who that old woman was. The following day they asked around whether anyone knew an old woman with white hair, as thin as a beanpole, but nobody knew anything. In the end they resigned themselves to the fact that their fears were right … The old crone was a witch.

  ‘If I close my eyes I can still see her,’ Rosa said, leaning her head back on the sofa.The cat had stopped sucking her sweater and was asleep without a worry in his head …

  ‘I agree that she was a witch,’ Bordelli said without opening his eyes.

  ‘I feel a little sad …’ said Rosa.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know … I wish I could become a little girl again and start all over.’

  ‘And what would you do?’

  ‘Something else,’ she said, stroking Gideon’s belly. They sat in silence. All they could hear was the purring cat, who lay on his back on Rosa’s legs.

  ‘Are you asleep?’ she asked softly. Bordelli didn’t answer. He was drifting off, making no effort to prevent it. A few minutes later he was snoring.

  26 December

  Piras woke up very early. He ate a slice of bread with fig jam, drank a cup of coffee, stuffed a few papassinos into his pockets, went outside and started walking. The sky was clear, and although the sun hadn’t yet risen, he could see rather well. He took the road to Seneghe and got busy with his crutches. A light fog hung over the woods. He breathed deeply, enjoying the feeling of the cold air in his lungs. He felt so restless he was jumping out of his skin. At last he had in hand a plausible explanation for what had happened to Benigno, and he wanted to try to sort it all out.

  Pintus might well have been one of those Fascists in Asti, maybe even the commander. Two women, an old man, three small children and a deserter, slaughtered like dogs so as not to leave any living witnesses to the pillaging of the villa. Who knew how many other similar outrages had taken place. But unlike the other victims, Benigno had survived, and twenty years later he’d recognised one of his killers by accident when negotiating the sale of a plot of land. It made perfect sense. But perhaps it was better to try to reconstruct each stage carefully, to see whether the story held together.

  The sun was rising over the horizon, dispersing the last few wisps of fog. Hopping along on his crutches, Piras began to see the first houses of Seneghe in the distance. He’d already gone two miles without realising it, head full of speculations about Benigno’s death. He kept imagining the whole story from beginning to end on the basis of his hypotheses, then, upon reaching the end, he would start over again from the beginning, making new observations and adding new details.

  So, Benigno sees Pintus and recognises him. He has no doubt about it: Pintus is one of the Fascists from Asti … And so he drops everything and walks out. Pintus realises he’s been discovered, quits Musillo’s office at once and starts tailing Benigno, already thinking about what he must do. It’s dark outside by now, and without being seen, he follows him all the way home. Waiting for the right moment, he hides his car or Rumi motorcycle in the dark driveway or at a spot not visible from the road, then goes into Benigno’s house and kills him with a shot to the temple … But in that case he must already have on him an unregistered, and therefore illegal, pistol, which would be careless in those times of heavy police presence on the island. No, if Pintus really was one of those Fascists, he couldn’t take such a risk. So it must have gone like this: Pintus follows Benigno home, then tampers with the Ape to prevent him leaving. From the various talks he’s had with the lawyer over the past few weeks, he’s learned that Benigno lives alone in a house with no telephone. Thus Pintus has all the time he needs to go home and fetch the right gun. Then he returns, enters Benigno’s house and kills him with a shot to the temple. He uses an old pistol from the last war, the kind of weapon anyone might have in his house. Pintus knows that such a pistol wouldn’t draw much attention from the carabinieri, not even at such a time of runaway banditry on the island. After the war many soldiers brought their standard-issue firearms home with them and ignored the 1945 orders to turn them in. There were still thousands of pistols stashed away in cellars and attics, and nobody in the countryside bothered to report them. After killing Benigno, then, Pintus puts the gun in his hand, raises it up to the temple, then lets it fall back down. And so we have the suicide of a shepherd and former half-partisan who wanted to sell a plot of land fit for building …

  It was all conjecture, but it had its own logic, thought Piras. For the moment he couldn’t think of any other possible scenarios, and so he tried to work with this one. But where was the empty shell? It really seemed like one of those movie plots where a murder remains covered up for decades, suspended in a limbo that human judgement cannot penetrate, and then at a certain point everything comes to the surface, destroying in an instant the entire edifice of falsehoods that had seemed as if it would stand for ever.

  Piras pressed effortlessly forward on his crutches, continually turning his hypotheses over in his head. If it really had happened the way he imagined, Pintus could be an assumed name … Even though all the man’s papers appeared to be in order. But his past went back no farther than 1945, when he moved to Oristano. Whatever Pintus had been before that date had disappeared in the flames that consumed the Records Office of Custoza Sommacampagna in the Veneto … Unless, of course, the engineer had purposely stated that he came from that municipality precisely because he knew that their archives no longer existed. Maybe it was even Pintus himself who had set fire to the town hall …

  Slow down, Nino, you’re going too fast, he said to himself. When he reached the church of Seneghe, he did an aboutface and started to head back home. He picked up his pace, panting heavily and sweating lightly under his clothes. His legs seemed to have an energy they didn’t have even the day before, and so he tried to lean less heavily on the crutches. He realised his legs could manage almost entirely on their own, without help and almost without pain, and at once he felt his face heat up.

  ‘Damn,’ he muttered. Without stopping, he tossed one crutch in the air ahead of him and watched it skid down the road. He’d been imagining this scene for a long time. Then he bent down to pick it up. He realised he ought not to push things too far just yet, and he put it under his arm again. But he also felt that he would very soon be able to manage without those wooden sticks. He was almost as excited as his first night in bed with Sonia. For the first time in all these difficult months since the shooting, he felt the strength returning to his legs. He chewed up the road as if it were nothing, as heated up as a child playing football.

  Remembering the biscuits he had in his pocket, he stopped to eat them, sitting on a cement kerbstone. Pina’s papassinos were the best in town, though his mother’s were a close second.

  By the time he returned home, it was past nine. His parents had already gone outside a while be
fore. He picked up the phone to call Sonia in Palermo, then realised she might still be sleeping and decided against it. Imagining her lying in bed, her blonde hair enveloping her face, he smiled. He went and sat in front of the fire. He tried to read but was unable to follow the words. Putting the book down, he closed his eyes. Once again he reviewed in his mind the story of Benigno’s murder from start to finish, trying to reconstruct the narrative in all its tiniest details. He had only two solid facts on which to base his conjectures. Benigno’s reaction upon seeing Pintus, and the shell that had vanished. Everything else he had added himself. They might of course be nothing more than the fantasies of a convalescing policeman, but if he tied them all together they seemed to form a logical whole, like those puzzles in the Settimana Enigmistica where by connecting the numbered dots one obtained a coherent image.

  At ten o’clock he went into the entrance hall and phoned Pintus. He told him he’d got a first reply from Benigno Staffa’s heir and wanted to make an appointment.

  Pintus was icier than usual. His tone of voice seemed to indicate that he was less convinced by the whole deal than before.

  ‘If the heir hasn’t accepted my offer, there’s no point in you coming all this way to see me,’ he said.

  ‘Actually I’d rather not discuss this over the phone, Mr Pintus. And since I have to go to Oristano tomorrow anyway, I thought I might as well drop in on you for a few minutes,’ said Piras.

  ‘I can only see you at half past one. Is that all right?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘But I can tell you right now that I won’t have much time for you, Mr Piras.’

  ‘I’ll just take a few minutes of your time, sir, don’t worry.’

  ‘And please be punctual,’ said Pintus, hanging up.

  Piras stood there staring at the picture of Santa Bonacatu on the wall without actually seeing it. He still had no idea what he would say to Pintus. He had to find a way to make him talk about the war without arousing his suspicion. If the engineer really was one of the Fascists from Asti and really did kill Benigno … well, it was best not to let him know that he was investigating him. The whole affair could take a dangerous turn. But Piras felt he had no choice. If Pintus really had buried his past by changing his name, then the only way to unmask him was … was what?

  The inspector picked up his matches, but then the telephone rang. It was the commissioner.

  ‘Could you come up to my office for a minute, please?’

  ‘I’ll be right there.’ Bordelli dropped the unlit cigarette on to his desk and stood up with a sigh. He had a lot of things on his mind, and the last thing he felt like doing was talking to Inzipone. After falling asleep on Rosa’s couch, he’d woken up around nine, relaxed and with a pleasant taste in his mouth. He had to admit that those hand-rolled ‘cigarettes’ were better than the state-issued variety. Rosa, however, still hadn’t given him his Christmas present, and he was very curious to know what it was. He sauntered lazily upstairs, knocked on the commissioner’s door and went in without waiting.

  ‘Hello, Bordelli, have a nice Christmas?’ asked Inzipone, looking as if he’d gained a little weight.

  ‘Fine, and yourself ?’

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you here on St Stephen’s,’ Bordelli said, half smiling.

  ‘I came in just to talk to you, actually … But tell me first, how’s Baragli doing?’ asked Inzipone.

  ‘His time’s almost up.’

  ‘How sad …’ he said.

  ‘What did you want to tell me?’ Bordelli asked, hoping to get things over with quickly.

  ‘Well, I was wondering if there were any new developments in the case of that fellow’s murder … what was his name?’

  ‘Badalamenti.’

  ‘Ah yes, Badalamenti.’

  ‘Nothing serious yet,’ said Bordelli. The commissioner shook his head.

  ‘Actually I wanted to see you about something else, Inspector. We’ve been having some trouble round Santo Spirito, and I was wondering …’

  ‘Another round-up?’ Bordelli asked. The commissioner held up a hand to prevent any misunderstanding.

  ‘No round-ups. It’s just that … for the past few weeks, there’s been a man going around beating people up in that neighbourhood.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard mention of it myself.’

  ‘So … why don’t you go there and have a look around?’

  ‘What exactly do you want me to do?’ asked Bordelli.

  ‘Just find out who this person is, and make him stop, obviously.’

  ‘Could I ask you two questions, sir?’

  ‘Go right ahead.’

  ‘Why are you asking me to do this? And why are you so interested in something so silly?’ the inspector asked. Inzipone threw his hands up and forced a smile.

  ‘I’m asking you because you know the neighbourhood well, that’s all … And on the thirtieth President Saragat will be coming here. You knew that, didn’t you? An official visit, but apparently he wants to tour the historic districts, the old quarters, and I really shouldn’t want anything untoward to happen … You know what I mean? It would be quite unfortunate. The newspapers always make a big deal of these things and never miss a chance to embarrass us … You know this yourself.’

  Bordelli put a cigarette between his lips.

  ‘Message received,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll look forward to hearing from you soon, Bordelli.’

  ‘I’ll go tomorrow,’ said the inspector. Inzipone patted his head several times with the palm of his hand, a tic that appeared whenever he grew nervous.

  ‘I mean it, Bordelli. How do you think we’ll look if something unpleasant happens right in front of the president? We’re here to maintain order, aren’t we? Then we should prove it.’

  ‘I’ll let you know as soon as I can,’ the inspector said, heading for the door. His hand was already on the doorknob when the commissioner stood up.

  ‘Ah, Bordelli, I almost forgot … I want you to have De Bono brought in before Thursday … You never know.’

  ‘All right.’

  Bordelli said goodbye with a wave of the hand and went out.

  De Bono was an elderly anarchist with no teeth. A sorry sight. Fate had it that he was also called Emilio, like the Fascist bigwig and general.39 Until a few years ago, whenever some high state functionary came to town, De Bono would be in the front row, waiting with a bag of rotten eggs in his hand. It was said that he always kept a great many eggs at home and would let them rot for just such occasions. Wending his way through the crowds, he would get as close as possible to his target, scream ‘Long live anarchy!’ and hurl his projectiles. He seldom missed. The few weeks he would spend in jail as a result served no purpose. In the end the police decided to not to arrest him any more for what he did, but for what he might do. They would go and get him at home the day before the dignitary in question was to arrive and then release him the day after the event. He would be held as a guest of the Murate prison, in a room with a cooker and a television set. They termed the procedure a ‘preventive measure’. De Bono made a scene every time, kicking and screaming and threatening to have the Union of Fighting Anarchists, of which he was the supreme leader, declare war on the state. The policemen only laughed at him.

  ‘Oooh, we’re so afraid!’ they would say.

  ‘Well, if you’re not afraid, then why are you arresting me? Eh? Why the fuck are you arresting me, you bastards!’

  Still laughing, the policemen would grab his arms and lift him off the ground.

  ‘Calm down, De Bono, and let us do our job. We don’t want any trouble.’ And he would start screaming that the rotten eggs were just the beginning, and that the attack on the Master State was imminent, the Power of Capital would soon be overthrown by Anarchist Fury and so on, all the way to his cell. Walking down the corridor, Bordelli ran into a couple of colleagues and nodded in greeting. Everyone seemed to have gained weight, but it might just have been h
is impression. A door flew open, and out came Rabozzi. He was always in a hurry and carried as many weapons as a soldier on patrol. It was anybody’s guess why an animal like Rabozzi had joined the police force. It surely wasn’t only so he could drive a souped-up Maserati.

  ‘Ciao, Bordelli, we’re going on a raid,’ he said, walking fast towards the exit. Two or three squad cars could already be heard revving their engines outside.

  ‘During the Christmas holiday?’ Bordelli asked.

  ‘That’s the best time!’

  ‘Break a leg.’

  ‘Thanks!’ yelled Rabozzi, already at the end of the corridor.

  Mugnai poked his head in, wearing a face like a boiled fish. He muttered something imcomprehensible to Bordelli.

  ‘Come inside, I can’t hear you,’ he said. Mugnai closed the door behind him and came towards the desk.

  ‘There’s a young lady here to see you, sir,’ he said, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘Why are you making that face?’

  ‘Well, sir … she’s a right pretty thing …’

  ‘Does that worry you?’ asked Bordelli, figuring it was Marisa.

  ‘No, not at all, sir … But it’s not every day you see a girl like that,’ said Mugnai.

  ‘Show her in,’ Bordelli said, ending the discussion

  ‘Straight away, sir.’ Mugnai went to open the door and told the girl she could come in. Marisa entered wearing a serious expression. She seemed a little intimidated. She was wearing a smart red overcoat cinched in at the waist.