Death in Sardinia

by Marco Vichi

  ‘Ettore … I have to ask you to lend me the Five hundred again,’ he said, vapour rising from his mouth.

  ‘What the fuck!’ said Ettore.

  ‘It’s important.’

  ‘Can’t you call Bernardo’s taxi service?’

  ‘Do you know much that would cost? Come on, don’t be a jerk.’

  ‘You’re going to bring it back all dented.’

  ‘Hey, speak for yourself. I know how to drive …’ said Piras.

  ‘What, you saying I don’t?’

  ‘Hell, Tore … I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important.’ Ettore give an irritated smile.

  ‘Well, this time you have to put in some petrol for me,’ he said.

  ‘What a skinflint,’ Angelo commented, chuckling.

  ‘I’ll even top it up …’ said Piras.

  ‘Gimme the keys.’ Ettore pulled out the keys, let them dangle from one finger for a few seconds, then put them in Nino’s pocket.

  ‘When’ll you bring it back?’

  ‘As soon as I’m done,’ said Piras.

  ‘You’re not really going to fill it up for him, are you?’ asked Angelo. One night in ’43, Bordelli and four of his comrades were forced to take refuge in an abandoned barn near the German lines. They entered through an unhinged door, just before sunset, and found a surprise inside. A living calf. They looked at it in silence, as if they had a Greek goddess before them. They were all hungry, famished in fact, and had seen no meat for months. There was a problem, however. They couldn’t shoot the calf because the Nazis were rather close by and might start firing mortar their way. But neither did they want to wait to bring the animal back to camp with them the following morning. They had to kill it right then and there without making any noise, perhaps with a knife. But nobody could make up his mind. The sun had set completely, and they could hardly see any longer inside the stall. Luckily the only window gave on to the side facing the Allied lines, so they could use their torches without fear.

  ‘But if we slit his throat, Captain, he might start lowing like the devil,’ said Tonino, who knew about these things.

  ‘And the bombs’ll start raining down on us,’ Moroni added. Bordelli thought it over for a minute, then pulled out his iron fist, a tool he had created for himself from the propellor of a downed English aeroplane. It must have been made of aluminium or something similar. Light and durable. He’d worked on it during his free moments, during the long waits when nothing was happening. It had holes for the fingers and spikes over the knuckles. It was a deadly weapon. He had used it only once, on a Nazi’s face, and the result was not a pretty sight. When he slipped it over his hands, the others started ribbing him.

  ‘Hey, it’s Dick Fulmine!’40

  ‘What are you going to do, Captain?’

  ‘You’ll just comb his hair and he’ll get pissed off …’

  ‘Get out of the way,’ said Bordelli. By this point it had become a dare between him and the others. He took careful aim, cocked his arm, and struck the animal forcefully between the eyes. The animal collapsed at once, without so much as a cry, as if all four of its legs had been cut from under it.

  ‘Holy shit!’ said Gennaro.

  ‘Thanks for the encouragement, guys,’ said Bordelli, putting away his artificial ‘fist’. His comrades slapped him repeatedly on the back and immediately got to work with their knives. The blood poured out in buckets, flooding the brick floor and sticking under their shoes. They cut little strips of meat and roasted them directly over the flame of a portable gas burner. It was as tough as leather and smelled burnt, but they ate it with gusto, tearing it with their teeth. Then they finished cutting the calf up into bits, and the following morning brought the rest of the meat into camp, carrying it in a number of firewood baskets they’d found in the barn. The poor animal hadn’t had much luck, but they thanked it with all their hearts. They filled themselves with meat for two or three days, to the point of nausea. Their only regret was that they couldn’t keep eating it for the rest of the year.

  With that story in his head, he was almost asleep, thoughts already blending with dreams … when all at once he opened his eyes. What the hell! He sat up and turned on the light. He stared at the wall for nearly a minute, eyes fixed and mouth half open. He’d remembered something: the strands of hair that De Marchi had found in Badalamenti’s flat. Shit! He got out of bed, grabbed his cigarettes and went into the kitchen in his underpants. Pouring himself a glass of wine, he sat down at the table. His head was still filled with images of the calf collapsing to the ground, blood running down the draining furrows in the floor. He lit a cigarette and started thinking about that hair … Who knew why he hadn’t thought of it sooner. He wasn’t ageing gracefully. Perhaps it really was time to retire.

  27 December

  When he turned down Via di Quintole, it wasn’t yet midday. A ray of sunlight managed to pierce the clouds and light up the wet hillsides, but was quickly swallowed back up a few seconds later. Along the roadside a few narrow strips of snow still remained. If Odoardo wasn’t at home, he would wait for him. There was no danger the inspector might feel bored in so beautiful a place. Other dense, black clouds loomed in the western sky.

  He got to Le Rose and turned onto Odoardo’s driveway. As he approached the farmstead he saw the Vespa parked under the loggia. Leaving the Beetle on the threshing floor, he got out and knocked on the door.

  ‘Coming!’ he heard Odoardo cry out. A moment later the lad came out, coat buttoned up to his neck, and slammed the door brusquely behind him.

  ‘What is it this time?’ he asked.

  ‘I need a strand of hair from you,’ Bordelli asked bluntly.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A strand of hair,’ Bordelli said again, serious. There was no longer any point in playacting.

  ‘Am I supposed to laugh?’ Odoardo asked.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘A strand of hair …’

  ‘That’s right. One or more.’ Odoardo stared at him as if looking at a two-headed dog. Then he angrily tore out a clump of hair from above his ear and held it in the air, in front of the inspector’s face.

  ‘Will that be enough, or do you want my whole scalp?’ he asked.

  Bordelli opened his wallet, took out a small piece of paper folded in two, and opened it.

  ‘Please put it in here,’ he said. Odoardo dropped the hair on to the paper. The inspector folded it up and put it back in his wallet.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ‘What’s it for?’ the boy asked with a slight quaver in his voice.

  ‘To help me understand some things I don’t yet understand,’ Bordelli said, putting the wallet back into his pocket.

  ‘You’re always so clear, Inspector. You should be a politician.’

  ‘I’ll be back to see you soon, Odoardo, probably for the last time.’

  ‘To bring me a present for Epiphany?’ the youth said with a malicious smile. He seemed to have recovered his sangfroid. Bordelli no longer felt like joking.

  ‘Good day,’ he said. He shook his hand and went back to his car. While manoeuvring, he noticed Odoardo still standing under the loggia, hands in his pockets and a serious expression on his face. Neither bothered to gesture goodbye. When he reached the end of the lane, Bordelli turned on to the road to Quintole. He dug around in his pockets for the sole cigarette he’d brought with him but was unable to find it. The sky was swelling with clouds, and it didn’t look like a passing thing.

  Attilia had been by. His office smelled clean, and the floors were still damp. The inspector left the window open and sat down with his raincoat still on. There were two telexes on his desk; one from the Ministry of Education, the other from Verona Central Police. The list from the Order of Engineers had two people who went by the name of Agostino Pintus:

  Giovanni Agostino Pintus, born at Cagliari on 6 February 1896, graduated at Milan in October 1921 with a score of 110 cum laude. Residing in Milan, etc., etc.

  A
gostino Maria Pintus, born at Tresnuraghes on 16 April 1939, graduated at Bologna in May 1964 with a score of 110 cum laude. Residing in Bologna, etc., etc.

  The Pintus they were interested in couldn’t have been either of these two. One was too old and the other too young. The telex from Verona said:

  Pursuant to your request concerning said Agostino Pintus, from research conducted. Archives of parish of Custoza di Sommacampagna, no result. Interrogation of Custoza inhabitants: nobody recalls anyone with surname Pintus. End message.

  Grabbing the packet he’d left on the desk, he realised it was empty. He rifled through all the drawers and at last found a crumpled half-cigarette. He carefully straightened it out and lit it. It was his first of the day, and it was already almost half past noon. He was making progress. He inhaled deeply and blew the smoke towards the ceiling. Cold air came in through the window, but he didn’t feel like getting up to close it. He took out his wallet, extracted the paper with Odoardo’s hair inside and, without opening it, set it down on the desk. He looked for an envelope, found one, made sure it was empty and clean, then slipped the hair inside it and stapled it shut. He picked up the in-house telephone.

  ‘Hello, Mugnai, please send me Tapinassi straight away.’

  The cigarette tasted like pencil shavings, and he crushed it in the ashtray. He leaned back in his chair, letting it rock back and forth. Tapinassi knocked, came in and went straight to the window to close it.

  ‘Don’t you feel cold, Inspector?’

  ‘Please take this at once to De Marchi,’ Bordelli said, ignoring the question and handing him the envelope.

  ‘All right, sir.’

  Tapinassi realised it was urgent and left at once. Bordelli rang Mugnai again and asked him please to go and buy some cigarettes for him. While waiting he searched his drawers again for another, but came away disappointed. Mugnai’ll be along soon, he thought. He really felt like smoking. Maybe going without cigarettes all morning was too much. One was supposed to do it more gradually.

  He phoned De Marchi to tell him Tapinassi was on his way with an envelope containing hair that he should compare with the samples found in Totuccio Badalamenti’s flat.

  ‘How long are you going to make me wait?’ Bordelli asked.

  ‘I’m right in the middle of some things, Inspector. If I abandon them halfway it’ll be a disaster.’

  ‘When do you think you can do it?’

  ‘I’ll have a look at it as soon as I can.’

  ‘When you’ve got the results, forget the typewriter and call me at once.’

  ‘Very well, Inspector,’ said De Marchi.

  Bordelli hung up and, as Mugnai still hadn’t returned, he went out to look for him and ran into him in the hallway. He paid him what he owed and thanked him for the cigarettes. Climbing the stairs, he opened the packet and lit one. By the time he returned to his office he’d already smoked half of it. He had to calm down. De Marchi would have the results of the hair test soon enough. There was no point in letting his thoughts run away with him. Everything would go as it must. He sat down and tried not to think about the case. He cast a glance out the window. The sky was black, and the light looked like sunset. He remembered he had to go to Santo Spirito to look into that rubbish the commissioner was so worried about. What a pain in the arse. It was the last thing he felt like doing.

  Half an hour later, a telex just received from Cagliari was brought in.

  Based on research conducted at the Records Office of the municipality of Armungia concerning the names in question: Pietro Pintus, born Armungia (Cagliari province) on 12 July 1882 and Maria Giuseppina Gajas born Armungia (Cagliari province) on 6 November 1887; we inform that at present neither of the names in question appears in the abovementioned Municipal Archive. We further also point out that: 1) the Records Archives of the above-mentioned municipality are incomplete prior to 1947; 2) the parochial registers have deteriorated due to poor conservation; 3) no persons in town recall anyone bearing the name in question. It must however be added that such a result in this specific case is of no certain value, given the sometimes extreme reserve typical of the people of this region. End message.

  It was as though the engineer had left only a trail of scorched earth behind him. The whole thing was beginning to appear rather strange indeed. Bordelli rang Piras, but he wasn’t at home. His mother said Nino had left the house before eleven, having gone on a drive to Oristano in Ettore’s new Fiat 500, and wasn’t back yet … She then added that Nino hadn’t eaten a thing at breakfast, aside from two amaretti and a coffee, and that much earlier that morning he had walked nearly all the way to Milis, which was too bad because he was so thin and the doctor said he should eat more … To say nothing of the fact that he’d made some mysterious phone calls in the past few days …

  ‘Do you know Nino’s girlfriend, Captain?’ she asked out of the blue.

  ‘I didn’t know he had one,’ Bordelli lied, quick to catch on.

  ‘Well, he does,’ said Maria.

  ‘He hasn’t told me anything about it.’

  ‘Her name’s Francesca, but that was all I was able to find out.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t be of any help,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry … What’s the weather like over there?’ he asked, to change the subject.

  ‘It’s sunny, but there’s frost at night,’ said Maria.

  ‘Here it’s about to rain.’

  ‘Oooh, excuse me, Captain … I have to check the chicken,’ said Maria.

  ‘Is one of your chickens not feeling well?’

  ‘I mean the one in the pot. I’m making broth.’

  ‘Goodbye, Signora Maria, please give my best to Gavino.’

  ‘Goodbye. I’ll tell Nino you called, as soon as he gets home.’ They hung up. Bordelli lit another cigarette, took one puff, and set it down in the ashtray. In the lamplight the rising smoke looked oily and very white. He wondered how Piras had got his mother to believe that Sonia’s name was Francesca. He felt hungry and went out on foot, headed for Totò’s kitchen. As he walked he started imagining the telex he wanted to send to every single police department in Italy, requesting an urgent, thorough search for Agostino Pintus, born at Custoza di Sommacampagna (Verona province), 16 July 1912, son of Pietro Pintus, born at Armungia, etc., etc …

  It wasn’t yet one o’clock and Piras was already in Oristano. He was still half an hour early for his appointment with Pintus. He parked at the start of Via Ricovero and went into a bar to drink a chinotto.41 He felt a little nervous. To avoid letting the time go to waste, he went for a walk in the neighbourhood. The centre of town was busy with traffic, mostly Fiats and motor scooters. Walking past the Portixedda tower, he reached the bottom of Via La Marmora and started wandering the streets in front of the Duomo. Schools were closed, and there were a great many people walking about, especially mothers with small children, and thus it was better for him, with his crutches, to cede the pavement to them and walk in the street. Shop windows were decked out with festoons and coloured lights, and the pastry shops were already full of Epiphany stockings and sweet coal.

  He glanced at his watch and walked slowly back towards the car. At twenty past one he got back inside, drove the entire length of Via Ricovero and turned down Via Marconi. He pulled up in front of the engineer’s small villa. The dogs were already tied up and started to bark. The Alfa Romeo and Fiat 1100 were parked on the lawn, and the Rumi was there as well. He rang the doorbell. Pintus appeared in the doorway and slowly came forward to open the gate. They walked together into the house and sat down on the facing sofas, one in front of the other. Outside, the dogs kept on barking. Everything seemed the same as the previous time.

  ‘So, what is it, Piras? I haven’t got much time,’ said Pintus.

  ‘I’ll get straight to the point …’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘The heirs have accepted your offer.’

  ‘Good,’ said Pintus, looking serious.

  ‘Aren’t you going
to offer me a drink in celebration?’ Piras asked, smiling. Pintus didn’t move for a few seconds, then smiled in response.

  ‘All right,’ he said. He got up and went to get some wine and two glasses. He passed one to Piras and then sat back down.

  ‘Where and when can we meet for the contract of agreement?’ Pintus asked, practical as usual.

  ‘Well, we have to wait for the rights of succession to be formalised,’ said Piras.

  ‘A signed, notarised statement is also fine with me. I can make the fifty per cent down payment straight away. The deed must be drawn up within six months, and succession procedures never last more than four,’ said Pintus, apparently quite sure of himself.

  ‘You know something? I bet you’re more or less my father’s age,’ Piras said in a friendly tone.

  ‘I was born in 1912.’

  ‘My father’s from ’13. He was in the navy, but after 8 September he came ashore to join the San Marco regiment.’

  ‘Pavolini was very proud of them,’ Pintus said gravely.

  ‘Probably not of my father. He was in Badoglio’s San Marco,’ said Piras, taking a sip of wine.

  ‘There was some confusion at that time, as I’m sure your father would concur,’ said Pintus.

  ‘My father says that, all of a sudden, everything became clear to him, and the only Italy he wanted was an Italy without Fascists and Nazis … Or, as he puts it, “without those shiteating Nazis and pants-shitting Fascists”,’ Piras said with a chuckle. He wanted to provoke the man into reacting.

  ‘You’re still just a kid. You can’t possibly understand these things,’ said Pintus, cold but calm.

  ‘Sometimes you can get a better picture of things from a distance.’

  ‘I really don’t know what you’re getting at,’ said Pintus, raising his eyebrows as if it didn’t really matter to him. He suddenly seemed in less of a hurry.