Death in August

by Marco Vichi

  He shaved, hoping the weariness that had accumulated in his wrinkles like invisible dirt would be carried away with his beard. After a cold shower, he reheated the coffee of the previous morning and drank it in a hurry. Stepping out on to the pavement, he had to close his eyes halfway, so brilliant with sunlight were the streets. The soft, burning asphalt cast Saharan reflections.

  It was one o’clock when Bordelli parked his Volkswagen in front of the Trattoria da Cesare, which had remained open for the dog days. It was rather eerie to see Viale Lavagnini completely deserted. Leaving the car windows slightly open, he headed into the restaurant. It was the only place he ever went to eat, and by now it was a bit like going to the home of friends. As soon as he entered, a number of hands rose in greeting. The tables were full of solitary husbands whose wives were at the beach, but Bordelli by now had his own reserved table in Toto’s blazing kitchen, next to the ovens of the shortest cook in Europe. He sat down on his customary backless stool and leaned his shoulders against the wall.

  ‘Ciao, Toto, I hope you’re not going to give me wild boar again,’ he said.

  ‘Hello, Inspector! What have you got against wild boar?’

  ‘Nothing, in winter …’

  ‘All right, no boar. Today, for delicate souls, there’s also panzanella.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  Normally Toto’s dishes were swimming in fat. Even his fruit salads had something greasy about them. Panzanella. This was the first time he’d ever made panzanella. But Bordelli quickly discovered that Toto’s version included an unheard-of amount of onions. He nevertheless served himself a heaped plateful, deciding not to eat anything else. Watching Toto juggle the skillets, he thought that spending the summer in the kitchen in front of eternal flames must be a kind of mission, which would make Toto a missisonary. The heat there felt rather like a truncheon to the head. Mere breathing was an effort, though that didn’t stop Toto from talking. The formidable cook was also a born talker, and he often told stories of his home town in the south.

  ‘… Like that relative of mine, Inspector, who went to America in ’32 to work as a labourer and now he’s got more money than a lawyer.’ This was followed by a thousand anecdotes that had a touch of myth about them. Sometimes he talked about thirty-year feuds that were still going strong. He would name all the dead, down to the last. People from his town would keep him up to date through letters and by telephone, giving descriptions of faces reduced to pulp by sawn-off shotguns and of goat-tied bodies. Bordelli gladly listened to him. He liked the musical intonations of his speech and his use of the plural voi, which in Toto had nothing to do with the Mussolini era.

  ‘What was that wine you gave me, Toto!’

  The cook opened his eyes wide.

  ‘You don’t like it, Inspector?’

  ‘It’s good, but it’s thick as blood.’

  Toto smiled broadly.

  ‘It’s from our grapes, Inspector. And if there’s blood in it, that’s normal.’ Then he raised a lid and a bubble of greasy smoke rose slowly and stuck to the ceiling.

  It was already two o’clock. Bordelli stood up from his stool and stretched as if he was getting out of bed. He squeezed the cook’s shoulder by way of goodbye.

  ‘Ciao, bello,’ he said.

  ‘Be well, Inspector.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  He exited Toto’s lair feeling fairly light. It was the first time. He only had a halo of onion round his head. As he was about to get into his car, he felt someone touch his shoulder and turned round. Beside him stood a man of about seventy, with a nice, tired face and a small head that moved in jerks, like a snake’s.

  ‘May I? Cavalier Aldo Affumicato,’ he said.

  ‘A pleasure,’ he said. ‘Bordelli.’

  They shook hands. The cavaliere had cold fingers.

  ‘Could I have a minute of your time?’ The cavaliere seemed a bit embarrassed.

  ‘Actually …’ said Bordelli.

  ‘I don’t know whom to talk to about this, and I’ve got some very important things to say. Do you have a minute?’

  ‘All right,’ Bordelli said, though he wanted to leave.

  ‘You see, I worked at the Ministry of the Economy for sixteen years, and do you know what my job was?’

  Bordelli waited in silence for the answer, but the man wouldn’t speak.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask me what my job was?’ the cavaliere said after a pause.

  ‘Sorry … What was it?’

  ‘But, were you about to go somewhere?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Go ahead.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about me, sir, I have a lot of time on my hands,’ the man said with an unhappy smile. ‘Where was I?’

  ‘You were telling me about your job at the ministry.’

  ‘Ah, yes … and had you already asked me what my job was?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘Good. My job was the following: I had to report, at the end of each trimester, the volume of sausages produced in a depressed area of Basilicata … Are you sure I’m not boring you?’

  ‘Please, go on,’ said Bordelli. They were standing in the sun at two o’clock in the afternoon, but the cavaliere seemed not to notice.

  ‘I’m from a town near Turin, you see, but I won’t tell you which because I’m sure you don’t know it. To move house from there to the south was a big sacrifice, I can tell you.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I had to submit my reports to the Central Office of the Ministry of the Economy. And I would type them up personally; I took my job very seriously.’ The cavaliere looked him in the eye and spoke in a gentle voice. ‘But one thing seemed very strange to me, and do you know what that was?’

  ‘What?’ asked Bordelli, ready this time.

  ‘The fact that the ministry never once sent a reply, or any sort of communication at all. Absolute silence. Aside from my salary, of course, a little green receipt that alerted me that my postal account had been credited. That’s all.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘On my word of honour. Never a letter, never a phone call, and if I ever tried calling, the line was always busy. So, do you know what I did?’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I did the following: one day I got on a train and went to Rome. I wanted to find out why I had never received any official communication … aside from my salary, of course, a little green receipt that … but I’ve already told you that, haven’t I?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘Anyway, I left for Rome and, without telling anybody, I went straight to the ministry’s offices. They didn’t want to let me in, because they’d never seen me before, and said I had to identify myself. In the end they let me go and look for the man in charge of production analysis for the south, and I found him doing the crossword! But that’s of no interest. Do you know what I discovered?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I discovered the following: that all my reports were there, still in their unopened envelopes, bound together by a strip of glued paper. Sixty-three envelopes, never opened. Can you imagine?’

  ‘How is that possible?’

  ‘The fact is that nobody had ever read even one of those reports. Just think!’

  ‘I have no words.’

  ‘When I asked for an explanation, do you know what they said?’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘They said the following: that those statistics were of no use to anyone, and that my studies were pointless. The reason for my job was something else, I forget what, something to do with politics. And so, do you know how I felt?’

  ‘How did you feel?’

  ‘Bad, very bad. I simply can’t resign myself to the fact that I spent sixteen years doing a useless job.’ The cavaliere gave a sad smile. ‘And what do you do, Signor … Brodello?’

  ‘Bordelli. I’m a police inspector.’

  ‘A pleasure. Cavalier Aldo Affumicato. Could I have a minute of your tim
e? I’ve got some things to say, and I don’t know who to talk to.’ He held out his cold hand, and Bordelli shook it.

  ‘Listen, Cavaliere, why don’t you just forget about everything and take a nice holiday?’

  ‘Do you think I should?’

  ‘I think it would do you good.’

  ‘Then, you know what I’ll do?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m going to go to the ministry and ask them to give me an important assignment. What do you think? Should I do that?’

  ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘Yes, I think that’s what I’ll do … And what do you do, Signor Brodello?’

  It was a difficult half-hour, but in the end the inspector managed to free himself. He got into his Beetle and drove off. The heat in the car took his breath away.

  As Diotivede must be fairly well along at this point, Bordelli dropped in at Forensic Medicine. As soon as he walked into the laboratory, he felt revived; the temperature was decidedly pleasant in there. The doctor was travelling through the tiny, vast world of the microscope. He heard Bordelli come in, but didn’t move. At the back of the room was the slab with the body of Signora Pedretti-Strassen. The sheet covering her had a dark stain over the belly.

  ‘You know, Diotivede, if I had your job, I don’t know if I could ever eat liver … or tripe.’

  ‘I don’t see why.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you can’t imagine.’

  Diotivede looked up from the microscope and saw the world life-size again.

  ‘Haven’t you anything to do at the office?’ he said, glaring at him. Bordelli realised he was once again treading on delicate turf. Not that Diotivede was a touchy sort, but he did have trouble tolerating certain things. All jokes and cliches about those who made their living cutting corpses open irritated him. People had been trying his patience with such rubbish for decades. He felt that his job was like any other and, moreover, he liked it. He thought he was no different from a carpenter or a painter, and it irked him that others didn’t realise this. Bordelli knew this and liked to rib him about it, just so he could see the vaguely childish vexation on the doctor’s face. But he also knew when to stop, and so he immediately changed the subject.

  ‘Have you got anything for me yet?’ he said. The doctor continued to fiddle with his slides.

  ‘Do you need to know right away or can you wait for the report?’ Diotivede asked.

  ‘You know I don’t like to wait.’

  The doctor sighed, abandoned his labours and came towards him, removing his gloves.

  ‘The lady died about nine o’clock, from a violent asthma attack that triggered cardiac arrest. But the best part is that there was definitely Asthmaben in the Asthmaben bottle, but no trace in the drop I took from the glass.’

  ‘Listen-’

  ‘And that’s not all. There was no trace of the medicine in her blood, either, nor in her stomach. Whereas there was a great deal on her tongue.’

  ‘As if someone had poured the medicine into her mouth after she was already dead …’

  Diotivede gave one of his rare, brief smiles, a sort of puckering of the lips that was decipherable only to those who knew him well, but wasn’t necessarily the prelude to an amusing statement. Indeed, he said only:

  ‘It’s up to you to discover whether that’s true.’ He seemed glad not to have to concern himself with it.

  The inspector snorted.

  ‘Fingerprints?’ he asked.

  ‘A great many, all belonging to the deceased.’

  ‘Have you analysed the pages of the book?’

  ‘Nothing of interest.’

  Bordelli bit off a fingernail. It had broken halfway and kept getting caught on the fabric of his pocket every time he stuck his hand in.

  ‘Anything else?’ he asked. The doctor went and washed his hands at the laboratory’s tiny sink.

  ‘At the moment, no, but I haven’t finished yet.’

  ‘Keep me posted. Now, I need to buck up and go back down to Africa.’

  Diotivede gave a sly smile.

  ‘Is it really so hot in your offices?’

  ‘We’re training for hell.’

  ‘Well, in that case, I’ll drop by from time to time.’ Then he returned to Signora Pedretti’s slab with a scalpel between his fingers. The inspector left him to his beloved work and climbed back into his Beetle to return to the office. He had a long, useless afternoon ahead of him. The only sure thing was his appointment with Piras at half past nine that evening, to discuss and take stock of the situation. When he pulled into the courtyard at headquarters, he was bathed in sweat. There wasn’t a breath of wind; clothes stuck to the skin like leeches. Still, spending the month of August in the city also had its advantages: the corridors were less noisy, and Dr Inzipone was on holiday with his family.

  Bordelli pulled up in front of Botta’s place. The sky was becoming overcast; the humidity was unbearable. The only hope was that it might rain. Botta lived in Via del Campuccio, in a basement flat a few blocks from the inspector’s. They had known each other for almost fifteen years. Bordelli wasn’t yet forty years old at the time. Ennio Bottarini, the burglar known as ‘Botta’, had been caught lowering himself down the outer wall of a villa. Two policemen on bicycles happened to be passing by at the same moment, and Botta jumped down right in front of them. A case of very bad luck. They had found a bit of everything in his pockets: necklaces, a gold watch, a bronze statuette of a naked Venus, and even a glass ashtray.

  At the station the thief had started philosophising, holding forth on certain injustices that nobody understood, and since he couldn’t get so much as a dog to listen to him, he set his sights on Assistant Inspector Bordelli. He asked for him with such insistence, and with so many words, that in the end they gave him his way just to be rid of him. Even back then, Botta already bore the signs of a hard, wretched life on his face. Small and agile, he had the eyes of an ignorant genius, which won Bordelli’s sympathy at once.

  ‘Mr Inspector, I am pleased to meet you in person at last.’

  ‘I’m still an assistant inspector.’

  ‘Not for long, Inspector, not for long.’

  ‘Why did you want to see me?’

  ‘I’m called “Botta”, Inspector. I just know you’ll be able to understand me. My friends have told me that you’re someone who sees things straight.’

  ‘Which of your friends?’

  ‘Gino Gamba and “the Beast”.’ Two smugglers.

  ‘Go on,’ said Bordelli.

  ‘Look at me, Inspector. Do I look like a criminal? I haven’t even got a jackknife on me. I break into the villas of millionaires, rich people whose knick-knacks could feed me for a year. And so I go in and take a couple of these stupid gewgaws just to get by; but if I’m caught, I get five years. Now, you tell me if that’s fair.’

  The assistant inspector knew that the little burglar was right.

  ‘How many times have you been locked up, Bottarini?’ he asked him.

  ‘Not very many, at least not in Italy.’

  ‘So you’ve worked abroad as well?’

  Botta gave a start in his chair.

  ‘You see, Inspector? You said “you’ve worked” and not “you’ve robbed”… I knew you would understand.’

  ‘Not so fast, Botta, not so fast …’

  They kept on talking a while longer of this and that. Botta started describing the peculiarities of various European prisons, the differences between Spanish warders and Turkish warders; it was a kind of anthropology lesson, an enriching experience. This was not just any common thief. In the end the assistant inspector had taken him home, and they dined together, tripe and onions, washed down with a foul wine that Botta knocked back by the pitcherful.

  At the trial Bordelli had done everything possible to have him given the minimum sentence. In the end he got ten months, but was released after four for good behaviour. Ever since, they had remained friends of a sort. Sometimes they would dine together at Dal Lordo,
in Via dell’Orto. Or else they would spend an evening together on the banks of the Arno, exchanging stories about the war. Every so often they would fall out of touch and then meet back up again. It was only a year ago, at Christmas time, that Bordelli had discovered that Botta was a born cook. The little thief had put together a French dinner that was hard to forget.

  Bordelli tapped on the windowpane of Botta’s basement with the keys to his Volkswagen.

  ‘Are you there, Ennio?’

  The window opened slightly.

  ‘Inspector!’

  ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’

  ‘I’ll be right with you.’

  A good minute later, the front door giving on to the street opened up, and Botta appeared wearing a housewife’s apron.

  ‘Hello, Inspector, I was just making coffee.’

  Descending the stairs into Botta’s lair, Bordelli noticed a strange burnt smell.

  ‘What are you cooking?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing edible, Inspector. I’m doing a little job for a friend.’

  ‘A “little job”?’

  ‘Ancient coins. I boil them in mud to age them.’

  ‘A swindle, in other words.’

  ‘No, no, it’s a way to make the tourists happy.’

  ‘Well, when you put it that way …’

  As they entered the flat the coffee pot started whistling. It felt better in there than on the street; the three steps down made all the difference. Botta’s home consisted of two large, gloomy rooms, arranged with a certain care despite the modesty of means. One was the bedroom, with a bed and and an old wardrobe for clothes; and the other was a kitchen as well as sitting room, ‘work’ room and every other kind of room possible. Hanging on one wall was a framed photo of Fred Astaire in motion. Ennio had a burning passion for dance, never fulfilled for want of means. But, like all sentimentalists, he had many other passions as well.

  Bordelli saw some ten or so half-dismantled wristwatches on the table.

  ‘Looks like you’re starting another “little job” the police ought not to know about.’

  ‘Just changing the dial-plates, Inspector. That way, Forcella watches become Swiss.’