by Marco Vichi
‘Oh, I’m not getting at anything …’ said Piras, pretending to be amused.
‘I just find it rather fascinating to have a real, flesh-and-blood Fascist in front of me, for the first time.’
‘I think you’ve misunderstood me. I was never a Fascist,’ Pintus said with a cold smile.
‘Ah, I’m sorry, I beg your pardon,’ Piras said, raising his hands.
‘No problem.’
‘Anyway, I didn’t mean there was anything wrong with it. People do a lot of silly things when they’re young.’
‘I completely agree,’ said Pintus.
‘And what did you do during the war? Don’t tell me you were in the navy too?’
‘No, I was in Switzerland. I went over the border to avoid the war,’ Pintus said serenely.
‘Did you come back after the armistice?’
‘No.’
‘And what did you do in Switzerland?’ Piras asked.
‘Do you always ask so many questions?’
‘I’m sorry, I really do talk too much sometimes … But we’ve just made a wonderful deal! There’s no harm in having a polite little chat, is there?’
‘No harm at all,’ said Pintus.
‘I really am sorry, though, perhaps I was indiscreet and reawakened some painful memories for you.’
‘No, it’s nothing like that, don’t worry. I simply stayed in Switzerland until the war was over. I took no part in any of it,’ said Pintus, stretching his legs as if to relax. He crossed his ankles and then his arms. Piras distractedly looked down at the engineer’s heavy shoes … and felt a wave of heat envelop his head. He’d just seen something that might settle the whole affair, and he couldn’t quite believe it yet.
‘Let’s get back to business,’ he said, looking up at Pintus. He was making a great effort to remain calm, but it was hard to disguise the thrill of being dealt the equivalent of a royal flush. He had no idea whether or not his excitement was visible.
‘Let’s set a date to meet again soon,’ said Pintus, sitting up. Apparently he hadn’t noticed anything.
‘Shall we make it at Musillo’s law office?’ asked Piras, heart racing.
‘It’s all the same to me.’
‘When would be best for you?’
‘Any time at all is fine with me,’ Pintus replied in a serious tone.
‘Will you still be at home if I ring you in about two hours?’
‘I have to go out around half past four.’
‘Then I should manage all right. Thank you, sir. I’ll be going now,’ said Piras, standing up and grabbing his crutches. Pintus showed him out.
‘If I’m not here later, you can reach me tomorrow morning between seven and eight. After that I’ll be at the construction site,’ he said, accompanying him to the door.
Walking down the hallway, Piras felt quite tense … Perhaps Pintus really was the Fascist from Asti and had managed to deal Benigno the coup de grâce twenty years later … Maybe he realised he was under suspicion and was preparing at any moment to attack him and stab him to death … and then feed him to the dogs … But nothing happened. They went out of the house without a word. The dogs barked wildly as they crossed the garden, their chains clinking audibly as they pulled on them. Pintus waited for Piras to go out through the gate, then closed it behind him. As he walked towards the little Fiat, Piras turned round and saw Pintus releasing the dogs.
After having a bite to eat in Totò’s kitchen, the inspector went back to the office and dropped into his chair. He wanted to write out the telex message and then get a few minutes’ rest before going to Santo Spirito to look into the trouble there. What a bore. The first thing he had to do was drop in on Bolla, who always knew everything that was going on in that part of town.
He rang Mugnai and asked him please to go and fetch a coffee for him. He lit a cigarette, only his third of the day. He wanted to smoke it in peace, to enjoy it in full. That would help him to hold out longer before the next one. This was another theory he was trying to prove. He was about to start writing that blessed telex when the internal line rang. It was Rinaldi.
‘Piras rang you twice, Inspector,’ he said.
‘I’ll call him back at once.’
‘He said he’d call you back, sir, because he’s not at home.’
‘All right,’ said Bordelli, pleased to be able to postpone the bother of Santo Spirito for a precise reason. He continued smoking slowly. A few minutes later Mugnai knocked.
‘Your coffee, sir.’
‘Thank you … Did you get one for yourself as well?’
‘You didn’t tell me to, sir.’
‘I don’t need to tell you every time, Mugnai, it’s understood.’
‘Thank you, Inspector. I’ll go and get it straight away … Did you see the letter?’
‘What letter?’
‘I put it right there on your desk,’ said Mugnai, searching with his eyes.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Bordelli, moving some papers that had collected over the course of the day.
‘Of course I’m sure,’ said Mugnai. Bordelli keep searching, but found nothing. Then he heard a dull sound. Mugnai had slapped himself on the forehead and was now digging with his fingers into the pocket of his uniform.
‘I’m afraid I’m a blockhead, sir,’ he said.
‘You’ve still got it in your pocket …’
‘I really ought to see a doctor, sir. I was convinced I’d put it on your desk,’ said Mugnai, handing him the envelope.
‘There are worse things in life,’ Bordelli said, smiling.
‘I promise it won’t happen again, sir,’ said Mugnai, and after giving a military salute he went on his way. Bordelli put out the cigarette butt and distractedly opened the envelope. There was a postcard inside. Panorama of Montevideo. He felt a tingling in his arms and turned it over.
Happy Christmas. I think of you now and then. How about you? M.
Under these words was a lipstick imprint of a pair of lips. Bordelli closed his eyes and was back in Milena’s arms. He could almost smell her scent. He sniffed the card instinctively, thinking that she had put her fingers and mouth on it. But he smelled only cardboard. He looked for the return address on the envelope, but luckily there wasn’t one … Otherwise he would have been tempted to reply. Closing his eyes again, he tried to free himself from feelings he didn’t even want to name. But it was easier to do so with eyes open … Why had Milena sent him that postcard? Couldn’t she simply leave him in peace? She’d gone away. He’d tried to stop her, but she’d gone just the same. It was water under the bridge. Old news. Its only possible purpose was to make him bleed a little more. He had to erase the girl from his memory … He had no desire for an adventure like Diotivede’s with Maria Conchita.
He put the postcard in his bottom drawer and closed it. Then he changed his mind. There was no harm in the postcard; it only showed a view of Montevideo. He took it and slipped it inside the frame of a Dürer print he was very fond of, hanging under a photo of the president. He had to convince himself that Milena was just a pleasant memory … One that would fade like all the rest. That was the way things went. He’d even managed to forget Teresa, who’d probably been the most important of them all … A lot of time had gone by … Teresa, who’d left all of sudden, saying she didn’t want anything more to do with policemen … Teresa with her mischievous smile and black hair like Milena’s … Young, beautiful Milena, eyes full of fire … Milena who was now on another continent, never to return … Milena who … The telephone rang, startling him.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s me, Inspector.’
‘Piras. Where are you?’ He could hear a din of voices and dishes in the background.
‘I’m in Oristano, near the police station. I’m calling from a bar.’
‘I can hear.’
‘I went to see Pintus again, and something strange happened … If what I think I saw is true, Lady Luck is still kissing me on the lips.’
‘Tell me ab
out it.’
‘You’re not going to believe it, Inspector.’
‘Get to the point, Piras,’ said Bordelli, looking for his cigarettes.
‘We were sitting across from each other and talking, when Pintus stretched his legs and then crossed them, putting one foot on top of the other … He was wearing hiking boots, the kind with deep rubber treads on the soles. And you know what I saw?’
‘Come on, Piras …’
‘An empty bullet shell.’
‘Cut the crap, Piras.’
‘I told you it was a big deal, Inspector.’
‘Holy shit.’
‘It was stuck inside one of the rubber treads,’ said Piras.
‘Yeah, I got that already, Piras,’ said Bordelli, holding the telephone with his chin so he could light another cigarette.
‘Sorry, sir, I’m just a little excited,’ said the Sardinian.
‘Are you absolutely certain it was a shell from a pistol?’
‘I saw it,’ said Piras, his voice a little shaky.
‘Let’s keep our fingers crossed.’
‘And I think I know why Benigno was so surprised to see Pintus again … But I’ll tell you about that later. Right now I’ve got ants in my pants.’
‘All right, then.’
‘I would, however, like you to phone the central police here … just to tell them they should take me seriously,’ said Piras.
‘Call me back in five minutes,’ said Bordelli, hanging up. He dialled the number for Oristano police and asked for Chief Inspector Stella, whom he’d met some years before, at an official gathering. He told him about Piras and the investigation he was conducting, about the mysterious Pintus who had no past and the missing bullet shell that Piras might have found under Pintus’s shoe. He asked for help. Stella was quite well disposed and told him he would follow the case personally. Bordelli thanked him and hung up.
While waiting for Piras to call back, he started pacing about the room. He began thinking about Milena again, but then the telephone rang.
‘It’s all set, Piras. Inspector Stella’s waiting for you,’ Bordelli said.
‘Thanks, Inspector. I’ll keep you posted.’
‘I didn’t have time to mention it before, Piras, but I’ve received answers to my telexes. Verona and Cagliari turned up nothing at all. And the ministry has also got back to me. Our engineer is not on the official register.’
‘I’ll bet Pintus isn’t his real name. I’ll bet one of my balls it isn’t.’
‘Why not both?’
‘Well, you never know.’
‘Break a leg, Piras.’
‘I already have. I’ll call back soon.’ They hung up and Bordelli crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. Unable to sit still, he started pacing about the room again, hands in his pockets, thinking about Piras’s investigation. Even assuming that the shell really was in the guy’s shoe, who knew whether it was actually the one fired from the pistol found in Benigno’s hand? And if not … well, the suicide would almost certainly remain a mystery.
He glanced at his watch and ran a hand over his face. He’d run out of excuses. It was time to go to Santo Spirito.
He got into the Beetle but didn’t drive off straight away. He sat there awhile with his eyes half closed, head resting against the seat. Deep in his ears he heard a sort of background sound of surf. Maybe he was just tired. He started up the car and drove off, an unlit cigarette between his teeth. If he thought of Piras he felt a strong desire to light it. And now he had to concern himself with this idiotic problem at Santo Spirito … The postcard from Milena was the last thing he needed … A truly memorable day.
He waved at Mugnai as he left the courtyard. The sky was purple and the air smelled of imminent rain. The St Stephen’s day sun hadn’t lasted. He crossed the Arno and parked the Beetle in Via Maggio. As soon as he got out it started drizzling and he quickened his pace. He turned down Via Sguazza, and halfway down the narrow street he pushed on an unlocked front door and went inside. Feeling his way through a dark corridor full of spiderwebs, he reached the end and knocked on a low door. He heard some stirring inside, then an alarmed voice.
‘Who is it?’
‘Police.’
‘I haven’t done anything. I haven’t even gone outside for the last month.’
‘Open up, Bolla, it’s me, Bordelli.’ The door opened barely an inch, and an eye appeared in the crack. Then it opened all the way. Bolla had changed. He had less hair, and his misshapen nose stuck out even farther under the hollow, ringed eyes. As always, his cheeks were ravaged by pimples.
‘Inspector! What, you trying to give me a heart attack?’ he said, still shaken. He wasn’t old, but he wore all his years on his face, as if they’d been etched with a chisel.
‘Can I come in for a minute?’
‘You’re always welcome, Inspector.’ Bolla stood aside and let Bordelli into his lair. A table, a bed and one old wardrobe. A black cobweb fluttered over the bathroom door, and a dim bulb hung from the ceiling but wasn’t enough to illuminate the corners of the room. It was like being in a prison cell. Bolla opened a drawer and took out a tin box with biscuits inside.
‘Like a snack?’ he asked
‘No thanks, no need to bother. How are things, Bolla?’
‘Could be worse, Inspector, a lot worse,’ said Bolla, putting the tin of biscuits on the table. Bordelli sniffed the air.
‘Am I mistaken, or do I smell grappa?’ he asked.
‘I always keep a bottle ready just for you, Inspector.’
‘Be careful, Bolla. One of these days you’re going to blow yourself up along with the rest of this dump.’
‘I don’t make it here … I’ve got a little hut in the country with my cousin.’
‘Careful or you’ll burn your fingers off,’ said Bordelli. Bolla stuck a hand inside the tin and searched for an unbroken biscuit.
‘I have to eat, Inspector,’ he said glumly.
‘How much do you get for a bottle?’ asked Bordelli, taking out his wallet.
‘Normally I sell it for two thousand, but for you, I’ll make it fifteen hundred.’ Bordelli put two thousand-lira notes in his hand.
‘That’ll do. Are you sure I won’t get poisoned?’ Bolla took offence. He said he knew perfectly well how to make grappa, and that he threw out all the head and all the tail, not like some arseholes.
‘I either do things right, or I don’t do them at all, Inspector.’
‘Come on, Bolla, I was joking.’ Bolla reached under the bed and pulled out a clear-glass Bordeaux-style bottle with a cork in it, and put it on the table.
‘What brings you to the neighbourhood, Inspector? A man like you doesn’t usually come to this hole by chance,’ he said.
‘I wanted to ask you something …’
‘What?’ asked Bolla, nostrils flaring as if he were expecting some unpleasant news. Bordelli took a roundabout approach.
‘Apparently some things have been happening around here lately.’
‘What the hell are you talking about, Inspector? What kind of things?’
‘I’m talking about somebody who’s going around bashing people in the face. Don’t tell me you don’t know about it.’
‘Ah, that guy!’
‘Maybe you know who he is … and maybe I know, too.’
‘What, you trying to make me snitch or something?’
‘Come on …’
‘Is that why you bought the grappa from me?’
‘Listen, Bolla, I haven’t got all day for this … Do you know who it is or don’t you?’ Bolla thought it over for a minute, then cracked a biscuit with his teeth.
‘You know Gino’s bar?’ he asked, chewing.
‘You mean the one in Via delle Caldaie?’
‘That’s the one. Go and have a coffee there. They make it really good, the way you like it.’
‘Thanks, Bolla.’
‘For what? All I told you’s where they make good coffee.’
‘I’ll buy
you one that you can drink later.’ Bolla smiled, face full of wrinkles.
‘You’re too good to me, Inspector.’ Bordelli grabbed the bottle of grappa and headed for the door, followed by the bootlegger.
‘Take care of yourself, Bolla. And watch that you don’t blow yourself up. I mean it.’
‘’Bye, Inspector.’
Bordelli stepped out into the rain and went and put the grappa bottle in the car. Then he set out on foot for Gino’s bar. Every so often he had to jump down from the pavement to avoid the cascades of water raining down from the broken gutters above. The porphyry of the streets shone like porcelain. He crossed Piazza Santo Spirito and entered Via delle Caldaie. There weren’t many people about, only a few hurried silhouettes with their collars turned up, covering their faces. An old man on a bicycle rode past, wrapped in a plastic sheet. He had a cigarette inside his mouth the wrong way round and was blowing smoke out through his nose the way war prisoners used to do when sneaking a smoke.
It started pouring. Bordelli ran to the end of the street and ducked into Gino’s bar, dripping wet. The floor was sprinkled with dirty sawdust. Gino, the initial proprietor of the place, had died in ’48 in a brawl, but his name had remained. The bar was empty. There was only a fat guy seated at a small table in front of the counter. He was playing solitaire. He barely looked up at the intruder, then dropped a card on the table and resumed playing. He held his round head down between his shoulders and didn’t look disposed to conversation. Some scratchy-sounding music poured out from a small radio. Approaching the bar, Bordelli recognised a song by Celentano but couldn’t remember the title.
‘Could I please have a coffee?’ he asked.
The man played another card, undisturbed, then dropped the deck and stood up. He was hardly any taller than when seated and had an enormous paunch. He went huffing behind the bar, pressed the coffee into the filter, inserted this into the machine, and placed a little cup under the spout. Then he turned and stared at Bordelli without saying a word, his oily face split in two by a broad sneer. Bordelli stared back at him. He thought he recognised those eyes, and the curl to the lip also rang a bell. It must have been an old scar. The coffee was ready. The barman took the cup, put a saucer under it, and slid them across the bar.