Death in Sardinia

by Marco Vichi

  ‘Good morning, Inspector,’ she said.

  ‘Good morning … You can go now, Mugnai,’ said Bordelli, seeing that the officer was still standing in the doorway, watery eyes sizing up the girl. Mugnai vanished, closing the door behind him.

  ‘Please sit down,’ said Bordelli.

  ‘I’ll only stay a minute.’

  ‘Then please sit down for a minute.’ Marisa eased herself into the chair, pulling her coat more tightly around her. Looking into her sullen face and dark, luminous eyes, Bordelli felt a sort of thrill and tried to appear nonchalant. It was hopeless; the girl reminded him of Milena … And, like her, she had something special about her. Sooner or later she would probably use her beauty to make some money, which would likely spoil everything. Badalamenti was merely the first wolf she’d encountered along her path, perhaps not even the worst.

  ‘I just wanted to tell you … that …’

  ‘That what?’ Bordelli asked, sitting up in his chair. Marisa seemed about to reveal something important.

  ‘My brother didn’t kill anyone,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve already told me that several times.’

  ‘But you don’t believe me.’

  ‘I believe that you’re convinced of what you say.’

  ‘But you don’t believe it’s true …’ she said. Every so often she forced a little smile, but it never lasted.

  ‘If the police went only on what people told them, there would be a lot of innocent people in jail,’ Bordelli said.

  ‘But my brother … Don’t pay any attention to his playacting. He likes to act tough, but he’s very gentle.’

  ‘You’ve already told me that, too, and I haven’t forgotten it.’ Bordelli was beginning to think that the girl had not come to tell him these things, but for some other reason. But he couldn’t imagine what. Or perhaps he was wrong, and she was just a naïve girl who wanted to defend her brother.

  ‘He went only once … to see that guy,’ Marisa continued.

  ‘Does your brother know you’re here?’

  ‘No. He would only get angry if he did.’ Bordelli sighed and stood up, circled the desk, the girl’s eyes following him. He stopped right in front of her.

  ‘Signorina Marisa, forgive me for asking, but did you really come here to say these things to me?’ he asked, trying to be gentle. Marisa also stood up.

  ‘I live right near by,’ she said defensively, blushing.

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘I came to tell you my brother had nothing to do with this case,’ she said, looking away.

  ‘Do you know who did it?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Marisa. Then her face suddenly changed, and her eyes lit up. She took a deep breath and folded her arms over her chest. Her gaze darted about the room and finally came to rest on the window.

  ‘I don’t know why I came,’ she said in the tone of someone who was thinking the opposite of what she was saying. Then she turned back to the inspector and stared at him as if trying to frighten him … except that she was blushing and had a deep furrow in her brow. She continued to look at Bordelli without saying anything, breathing slowly as if trying to pluck up courage.

  ‘Go back home and don’t worry about anything,’ the inspector said, knowing he’d said the most banal thing in the world. Meanwhile he was thinking that it wouldn’t be so bad if the girl stayed a few minutes longer, either.

  ‘I always feel so worried about everything,’ she said, squeezing her arms more tightly round her breasts.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Bordelli. Ah, what a fine statement, truly original. But then why should he be original? He certainly wasn’t there to impress a woman. There weren’t any women in the room.

  ‘I lied to you,’ said Marisa, taut as a slingshot’s band.

  ‘About Raffaele?’ asked Bordelli, feeling his mouth go dry.

  ‘No.’

  ‘About what, then?’

  ‘I know why I came here,’ she said, dropping her arms to her sides. The second that followed was one of the longest in Bordelli’s life. His soul split in two. One half said: come on, old fool, give her a pat on the bottom and send her home to play with her dolls. The other half saw a fully fledged woman before him …

  ‘I think you’d better go home,’ said a third voice coming out of Bordelli’s mouth.

  ‘Don’t you want to know why?’ asked Marisa, looking like someone about to say something irreparable.

  ‘No, I don’t want to know,’ said Bordelli. He went to the door and opened it.

  ‘Are you throwing me out?’ asked Marisa, more and more self-assured. The inspector’s nervousness gave her courage.

  ‘I didn’t mean it that way,’ he said.

  ‘Then say what you meant.’

  ‘I invite you please to leave,’ said Bordelli, not moving from the open doorway. Marisa stared at him for a few more seconds, then left the room without turning round. Bordelli stood there listening to her heels clicking nervously down the corridor, then closed the door and sat back down. The office was as hot as hell itself, and he was sweating. He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. Had it all been in his mind, or had he seen things clearly? He didn’t want to know. But his pride was bleeding with satisfaction. He couldn’t help it. He was about to go into the bathroom and look at himself in the mirror, but he immediately felt ridiculous and remained seated. Poor old fool. Maybe he wouldn’t let her speak because he was afraid she might say something contrary to what he feared … Oh, a fine line of reasoning, that! Who knew what Fabiani might make of it! Still sweating, he unbuttoned his shirt. He would never know what Marisa was about to say. But he hoped he never saw her again.

  The sky was a clean, deep blue. Still recovering from his boxing match with the goddess of beauty, Bordelli, wanting to go for a walk, went out of the station with a single cigarette in his pocket. Leaving the packet in the office was one of his latest brilliant ideas. The air was cold but tolerable.

  Crossing Viale Lavagnini, he slipped into the Trattoria da Cesare, which didn’t close for Boxing Day. The dining room was full with a wedding party. Bordelli greeted Cesare and the waiters and went into Totò’s kitchen.

  ‘You’re just the man I was waiting for, Inspector,’ said the cook, filling a glass.

  ‘Have a taste of this wine.’

  ‘It’s got a nice colour.’

  ‘Some relatives also brought me peppers … the real thing … would you like some?’

  ‘Sure, why not?’

  Bordelli took a sip of wine. It had an odd flavour but wasn’t bad at all. Totò returned to the hob to move a couple of frying pans and stir the pasta. Then he lightly toasted two slices of bread, put them on a platter, poured a little bit of olive oil on them and solemnly laid a long green pepper on each.

  ‘Now keep that wine within reach, Inspector. This stuff’s worse than fire for you Northerners … Whereas back home even the babies eat it, and it does them a world of good.’ Bordelli took a first bite and a sort of fiery blaze immediately enveloped his tongue.

  He was about to spit it all out but then thought that if, in the south, even babies ate the stuff, he certainly didn’t want to seem like a sissy, and so he kept on chewing. Totò fidgeted before him, awaiting a comment. After a sip of wine, Bordelli was finally able to speak.

  ‘It’s good, but I’ll have to get used to it,’ he babbled hoarsely. Totò laughed heartily.

  ‘Wha’d I say? You Northerners have weak mouths.’ The inspector took another bite of the toast. He wanted to get through the ordeal so that Totò wouldn’t have the last word, and to test his own courage. Little by little, however, he started to enjoy it, as a pleasant aroma filled his nasal passages. Even the wine seemed to taste better, and he poured himself another glass.

  ‘So, Inspector, have you found the good man who put the shark on ice?’

  ‘Not yet, Totò.’

  ‘If you ask me, you’ll never find him …’

  ‘Is that a prophecy or a wish?’


  ‘Both, Inspector, both,’ Totò said seriously. Bordelli wanted to enjoy his lunch without any talk of loan sharks and tried to change the subject.

  ‘So, Totò, what do you make of the Christian Democrats’ latest opening to the left?’ he asked.

  ‘And what do you make of the Communist Party’s opening to the right?’

  ‘Interesting question,’ said Bordelli.

  And thus, chatting of this and that, he finished his wild boar and drank half a bottle of wine. When the coffee arrived, he lit the cigarette he’d brought with him in his pocket. It was all wrinkled and crooked, but it was all he had. He straightened it out and lit it.

  They drank their coffees, talking about Fanfani and Nenni, Moro and Berlinguer, and even poor Togliatti, who had died far from home. Then they moved on to grappa and Mussolini, the war, and the Americans in Sicily. Totò said that in his home town the mural painting of Il Duce’s face was still on the wall of the town hall. Nobody had ever removed it, and the old folks still said: ‘Now there was a man!’ An old uncle of his who had once shaken Mussolini’s hand still kissed his palm from time to time.

  ‘These fingers once touched il Duce,’ he would say with tears in his eyes.

  ‘The doctors keep telling me I’m going to get better, but they never look me in the eye when they say it. They treat me like a child …’

  ‘Forget about the doctors, Oreste, and concentrate on the nurses.’

  ‘I try, Inspector, but they always get away.’ Baragli smiled, slowly tracing the gesture of trying to catch something in his hand. His fingers were skeletal and his fingernails black. The only time Bordelli had ever seen hands like that was during the war, but they belonged to corpses.

  ‘A game of cards, Oreste?’ Bordelli asked.

  ‘I feel too tired, Inspector.’

  ‘Do you need anything? Are you thirsty?’

  ‘No, thanks. What can you tell me about that murder case? Any new developments?’

  ‘Yes …’

  ‘What?’ Oreste asked impatiently.

  ‘That boy who lives in the country, Odoardo … he’s left-handed.’

  ‘I knew it,’ said Baragli, thrilled. He tried to pull himself up in bed but couldn’t manage. The inspector helped him sit up, then adjusted the pillow behind his back.

  ‘Is that better?’

  ‘Thanks, Inspector … Are you really sure he’s left-handed?’

  ‘I came up with an excuse to make him use some scissors, and he held them in his left hand.’

  ‘Still feel like a game of briscola?’ asked Baragli, livening up. Bordelli took the cards from the drawer and they started playing. The sergeant was very weak and moved very slowly, but also seemed distracted by some worry. He took for ever to throw down his first card.

  ‘What’s wrong, Oreste?’

  ‘I’m still thinking about that boy, Inspector.’

  ‘You’ve caught the bug from me.’

  ‘But I know it’s not right to administer justice all by oneself …’

  ‘I know what you mean, Oreste.’ They looked each other in the eye for a moment, but said nothing.

  ‘Sometimes it’s hard to judge,’ the sergeant said.

  ‘I think about it often myself.’

  ‘That boy … I don’t like the thought of him going to jail,’ Baragli said.

  ‘Have you already found him guilty?’ Bordelli asked.

  ‘You’re right, I’m going too fast … Or maybe those who are about to die see things that others don’t see,’ said Baragli, half smiling. He threw down a card.

  ‘Oreste! That’s downright cruel of you.’

  ‘Your turn, Inspector. I get the feeling I’m going to win this round.’ After supper Piras went out and headed for Ettore’s house. He wanted to tell him and Angelo that City Lights was playing on the telly that evening. He knew the two had never seen it before. But he also wanted to ask Ettore again for the keys to the Fiat, hoping he wouldn’t make a fuss. He knocked on the Cannas’ front door, and Vanda, Ettore’s mother, opened up. She was as skinny as a rake and, without knowing, moved with a certain elegance.

  ‘Come in, Nino, there’s a war going on here,’ she said. From one of the back rooms came the sound of Delia, Ettore’s little sister, crying.

  ‘She doesn’t want to have her injection,’ Vanda said with irritation.

  ‘I know how she feels,’ said Piras, and he followed the woman into Delia’s room. They were all there. Dr Virdis was there too, with a syringe in his hand and a patient look on his face. Piras exchanged greetings with all present. The little girl was crying and hiding under the covers. She wouldn’t hear of having her bottom poked with a needle. She was screaming that she would die if they touched her. She was lying, of course, but beautiful. Barely five years old, her little face promised good things to come. Her father Michele was trying to persuade her that if she would let them do that one little thing, which lasted only a second, he would give her a beautiful gift. He drew near to the bed, but Delia curled up and fled under the covers again.

  ‘It hurts! It hurts!’ she screamed through her tears. Michele threw up his hands and looked at Dr Virdis.

  ‘Michele, the doctor hasn’t got all night,’ Vanda said to her husband. Michele ran a hand through his hair. He seemed the most upset of them all. A hale and hearty man like him, powerless against a little girl’s will. He was in love with his daughter, and she knew it and took advantage of it.

  ‘When something must be done, it must be done,’ Vanda said severely. Ettore looked on in amusement. It really wasn’t such a big deal. Dr Virdis sighed and put the cap back on the syringe.

  ‘But is it really so necessary?’ Michele asked. He couldn’t stand to hear his little girl whimpering any longer. He looked around at everyone in search of support, but nobody took his side. He went up to the child.

  ‘Delia, look at Daddy. I’m going to get an injection now, too, and you’ll see, it won’t hurt at all.’

  ‘No, I don’t want it! The last time it hurt!’ she carried on. Michele turned towards the doctor.

  ‘Isn’t there another solution? Something she could swallow?’ he said. Virdis sighed and shook his head. Michele turned to the child again.

  ‘I promise that if you let him give you the injection, I’ll buy you a present this big … I’ll buy you a bicycle!’ The little girl stopped crying for a moment, as if considering the offer, then curled back up into a ball.

  ‘It hurts! I don’t want it!’ she said.

  ‘But you’d like a bicycle, wouldn’t you?’ Michele said wearily. Then Dr Virdis took Michele by the arm and led him out of the room.

  ‘Stay here and don’t move. Everyone else, too. Out of the room,’ he said. Delia poked her head out from under the covers and watched the whole scene without saying anything. They all left the room and Virdis shut the door and turned the key.

  ‘What the hell is he doing?’ Michele asked, round eyed.

  ‘Let him do as he sees fit,’ his wife said, grabbing his elbow. The girl had stopped crying. No sound at all came from the room. Michele put his ear to the door.

  ‘You can’t hear a thing,’ he whispered. He listened for a few more seconds, then started rattling the door handle.

  ‘Doctor, please open the door,’ he said. First calmly, then with increasing irritation. Virdis didn’t answer, and Delia wasn’t crying. Michele looked at the others one by one with a worried expression on his face. He jiggled the door handle again several times, then slammed his hand against the door.

  ‘You’re not a doctor, you’re a butcher!’ he yelled.

  ‘Don’t say that!’ said Vanda, pulling his hair.

  ‘Ow!’ Michele cried. And at that moment the door opened. Delia was lying on top of the covers, looking serene. Virdis already had his medical bag in his hand.

  ‘The butcher is done,’ he said with a cold smile, walking between them and towards the door, followed by Vanda, who begged his pardon and said her husband was an anim
al. Michele went over to the girl and asked her whether it had hurt. Ettore waited to hear the front door close, then burst out laughing.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ his mother asked, coming towards him.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Ettore. Vanda walked past him and into her daughter’s room.

  ‘Tonight they’re showing City Lights on the telly … It’s probably already started,’ said Piras, looking at his watch.

  ‘I’m going over to Nino’s to see the movie,’ Ettore said, heading down the hallway.

  ‘Goodbye. Ciao, Delia,’ said Piras, poking his head into the girl’s room. Delia looked at him without saying anything.

  ‘Shall I bring a bottle?’ Ettore asked as they headed for the door.

  ‘No, there’s no need,’ said Piras. Out on the street, they went to get Angelo, who lived right next door. When they all got to Piras’s house, the film had already started.

  ‘Shhh,’ said Maria. The boys found themselves some chairs and sat down, trying not to make noise. The Setzus were also there, as well as a neighbour’s young son. There was a ritual silence around the television set. All the lights were off, and the glow of the picture tube reflected off their faces. Every so often someone got up to refill his glass. The Christmas log of olive wood was still burning slowly in the fireplace, lightly smoking and filling the air with a pleasant scent. When the film ended, the Setzus and the little boy went home, and Gavino got up and changed to Channel 2 to see what else was on.

  ‘I’m going over to Angelo’s house,’ said Pietrino, and the three lads all got up and went out on to the street. It was cold and the sky was full of stars.

  ‘Get a whiff of that air …’ said Angelo.

  ‘In Campidano they can only dream of such air.’ He never missed an opportunity to point out the difference between life on the plain and life in the hills. He was like everyone else in town, convinced that everything was better in Bonarcado than down there: the wine, the honey, the land, the cheese, the women, the water, the bread … Even the eggs were better when laid by the chickens of Bonarcado. Not to mention that during the hot months the plain was blanketed with mosquitoes. Ettore agreed with Angelo, saying that, though he was forced to work down there, he would never choose to live there. Piras ribbed them about it, saying they talked like a couple of old codgers, but deep down he actually agreed with them.