Death and the Olive Grove (9 page)

He was getting increasingly worked up. He tried to grasp on to some shred of an idea, any idea, even the most insignificant, just to feel as if he was making a little progress in the two murder cases. But nothing came to him. He thought again of Ginzillo and getting a search warrant for the villa in Fiesole, but this still seemed like a bad idea. Even if Casimiro's killer really did live in that house, the person had already managed in time to regroup and remove all traces before the murder was even discovered.

In the end Bordelli gave up and tried to busy himself with the little he had. He picked up the phone and called Santa Maria Nova hospital to see whether he could talk to Valentina's mother. He asked for Dr Saggini.

‘She's still very weak, Inspector,' the doctor said.

‘I only want to ask her a few questions.'

‘Try calling me tomorrow morning. Maybe she'll feel a little better then.'

‘Thanks, Doctor.'

The inspector hung up and sent Mugnai down to the bar again, this time to pick up a few beers. He felt at a loss. All he was doing was ruminating, without result, never advancing a single step. It was even worse than walking in the rain during the war, in boots weighed down with mud.

Casimiro's murder disoriented him. A great many things had happened around that villa in Fiesole, things which, at first glance, might appear disconnected. Perhaps they really were only coincidences that had nothing to do with the murder; or perhaps they were part of a bigger, still invisible design. For the moment it was hard to understand any of it. He flipped the cap off a beer bottle and distractedly opened the bottom drawer, the most private, of the filing cabinet. It was full of odds and ends, strange, useless objects – he couldn't even remember where he had got them: empty little boxes, colourful ribbons, a magnet with bits of iron stuck to it, old postcards signed by strangers, crumpled scraps of paper with meaningless telephone numbers written on them. At once he found a small, yellowed sheet of paper, folded in four. Unfolding it, he recognised his own handwriting. It was a letter he had written to his mother during the war. It was dated 9 September 1943, the day after the Armistice. A letter full of lies: ‘
Dear ones, we are leaving. We are on the move, to a destination unknown. We are perfectly calm. Do not worry about me, or about anything, even if you do not hear from me for a long time. I will write if I can. Love and kisses to all, F
.' He reread that brief, lying letter several times, shudders running up his arms. He well remembered when and where he had written it, and the mood he was in. After that date, the real inferno began. Farther down on the same sheet of paper his mother had written: ‘'
43 to '45 = War.
N.B.
Franco, aged 33, was taken away. For 12 months until September '44 we had no news of him, neither the Vatican nor the Red Cross could answer our questions. For 12 long months this note was our sphinx! Then two soldiers of the San Marco brought word to us, though he didn't write anything else until the end of the war
.' It was true. He had written nothing else. A few months after the liberation he had returned to Florence without telling anyone. It was a night in June. When he got to the house he went into the garden without ringing and looked in through a ground-floor window. His mother was sitting at a small table full of votive candles, and in the middle of all the little flames was a photo of her only son, whom everyone by now believed lost. He saw her praying in the shadows, her face perfectly still. He waited a few minutes, blood pounding in his temples as he looked on. Then he knocked on the windowpane. His mother stiffened and stopped praying, and even before she had turned round, she cried, ‘Franco!' Then she stood up, planting her hands on the table, and went and opened the window, remaining silent for a moment, just looking at her son who had come back from the dead, face darkened by sun, cheeks hollow, eyes glistening like those of certain animals. ‘You must be hungry,' she said. He climbed over the window-sill, tossed his backpack to one side, and lifted his mother in the air as if she were a little girl. ‘I'd love some spaghetti,' he said.

He folded the letter up again and put it back in the drawer. He ran a hand over his eyes to try to suppress the emotions at the heart of that memory, then lit another stupid cigarette and stared at the wall, spellbound. The image of his mother in front of that shrine to her son stayed with him for a long time.

Midway through the afternoon he remembered Aldo Bandiera, an old friend and fellow-thief of Casimiro's. Perhaps the little guy had confided in him, he thought. It might not be a bad idea to pay him a visit. He decided to go there at once. On his way out he gestured to Mugnai.

‘If anyone asks for me, I'll be back in an hour,' he said. Mugnai came out of his booth and followed him into the street.

‘My sister is very worried, Inspector,' he said. ‘She has two little girls and lately she's taken to keeping them always at home.'

‘There's nothing else we can do at the moment, Mugnai. But we'll catch him soon,' the inspector said with conviction. He didn't want anyone to notice that he was worried. He slapped Mugnai on the shoulder by way of goodbye and went to the department's garage to pick up his Beetle. Sallustio was just lowering the bonnet as he walked in.

‘Ciao, Sallustio.'

‘Inspector, are you sure this tractor ran before you brought it in?'

‘It ran the way it always does. Why?'

‘The spark plugs were in pretty sorry shape. I had to use a hammer just to unscrew them.'

‘Everything all right now?'

‘Everything's just fine, Inspector. You'll feel the difference … But I'm keeping the old plugs as souvenirs. I want to show them to my sons.'

‘German cars.'

‘If it had been down to these road-rollers, the potato-heads would have won the war.'

‘Let's not think about that, Sallustio, it's too frightening.'

He said goodbye to the mechanic and revved the engine as he left, to see whether he could feel this supposed difference, but he didn't notice anything different. The Beetle ran as well as it had always done, noisy as ever, German as ever.

When he got to Le Cure,
⁹
he parked the car in front of Bandiera's shop, which consisted of a glass-paned door giving on to a small room chock full of geegaws of every sort. The light was on inside, and a sign hung from the doorknob saying:
I'LL BE RIGHT BACK
. Bordelli got out of the car and looked in through the glass. There really was everything there, from wooden mannequins to used washbasins. He knew that Aldo lived round the corner, so he went there on foot.

He passed through the main door of a building with a dirty façade. Unable to find a light switch, he ascended the stairs in darkness. He let his hands brush against the wall to orient himself. He counted three storeys, then knocked on a door with his fist. He could hear a television going at full volume inside. Nobody came to answer the door. The inspector knocked harder, and finally heard the sound of a chair scraping against the floor. At that same moment a woman on the floor below screamed at her child, triggering the hysterical puling of a number of little children. Bandiera's door suddenly opened, and Bordelli found himself looking at Aldo's old mug, which bore the signs of a harsh, bitter life. The man had two enormous ears full of hair. By now he must be nearly eighty years old. As he hadn't turned down the television set, Bordelli had to raise his voice.

‘Hello, Aldo, could I come in for a minute?'

The old man didn't look overjoyed to see him.

‘That's what somebody else said, Inspector, when they came to arrest me.'

‘I just want to ask you a couple of questions.'

Leaving the door open, the old man turned round and walked towards the room with the blaring television, dragging his feet, with Bordelli following behind. He collapsed in a chair and glued his eyes to the cartoons on the screen. A large drop hung from the tip of his nose, but it refused to fall, not even with the trembling of his head. One wanted to wipe it away for him, even without his permission. Bordelli sat down in front of him.

‘Could you turn down the telly, please?' he asked.

Aldo pricked his ear with a finger.

‘What?' he said, wrinkling his nose.

‘The telly … Could we turn it down?' Bordelli yelled. The old man stood up reluctantly, went over to the television and lowered the volume.

‘I wanted to watch
Felix
,' he said, sitting back down.

‘I'll only take five minutes of your time.'

‘At my age, five minutes is a lot of time.'

‘Have you heard about Casimiro?'

‘I read it in the papers. If you find who killed him, send him here to me, Inspector. I'd like to have a few words with him, in my own way.'

‘When did you last see Casimiro?'

‘He came by a few days before he died.'

‘Did he say anything to you?'

‘He talked about a villa up Fiesole way, which he'd been spying on for several days.'

‘Do you know if he'd discovered anything?'

‘He didn't tell me anything else. The little guy always liked to be mysterious about things.'

‘I'll find his killer, you can be sure of that.'

‘He was a good dwarf,' said Aldo, staring at him. Bordelli got up to go. He'd reached another dead end.

‘Thanks, Aldo. I'll let you watch your
Felix
.'

Aldo stood up to see him out.

‘No need, Aldo, I know the way,' said Bordelli. The old man slumped back in his chair.

‘Goodbye, Inspector,' he said, turning his eyes to the television screen just as Felix was scratching his belly and laughing wildly …
The End
.

‘Hell,' said Aldo. Fortunately another cartoon started at once, also
Felix the Cat
, and the old man gave a sort of smile. Bordelli went out, leaving him in peace. He descended the stairs in the dark, afraid he might stumble. The little children were finally starting to pipe down, and on the top floor a woman was singing, as an old person somewhere else coughed and coughed.

The following morning, round eleven o'clock, Bordelli phoned Santa Maria Nova hospital again, to see how Carla Panerai, Valentina's mother, was doing.

‘You can come now, Inspector, but please don't tire her out,' said Dr Saggini.

‘Five minutes is all I need.'

‘Ask for me when you get here.'

‘Thanks. See you in a bit.'

The hospital wasn't far from Via Zara. Since the sky was clear, Bordelli decided to go on foot. He walked at a brisk pace, trying to empty his mind for a few minutes at least. As soon as he came out into Piazza San Marco he heard someone call him and turned round. Before him he found an unpleasant but familiar face.

‘Bordelli! Don't you recognise me? I'm Melchiorri.'

‘Hello, how are you?' said Bordelli.

So that's who he was. That prick Melchiorri. He still had the same big head covered with yellow hair, the same stupid blue eyes. Bordelli had never liked Melchiorri.

‘I'm well, and yourself?' said Melchiorri.

‘No complaints.'

‘It must be thirty years, no?'

‘Even longer,' said Bordelli, already bored. He looked at Melchiorri's motley tie, wishing he'd never seen it.

‘I live in Milan nowadays … A splendid city. The only truly Italian city. But my parents stayed behind, so a couple of times a year I come down to see them.'

‘Ah, good.'

‘Do you remember the row we used to kick up in class sometimes? The class from hell!' Melchiorri said, cackling with laughter.

‘Right.'

Bordelli didn't feel like talking. He didn't know what to say. He never knew what to say to people like Melchiorri, but the blockhead gave every indication of wanting to stand there and chat for a while.

‘Remember the Latin teacher? Mrs Vizzardelli … walked like this, all stiff, like she had a pole up her arse? Poor thing, she's dead, you know. Guerrini told me … Remember Guerrini? I saw him again, he married a black girl. He'd always been a bit strange, that one. I even thought he was a poof. And remember Francesca Caselli? Ah, la Caselli! The most beautiful bottom in the class … I saw her again a couple of years ago at a restaurant with her husband and three children and, you won't believe it, but she's still beautiful … Her husband's some sort of writer, I didn't quite get what he writes, he's got the face of an undertaker … Speaking of which, did you know about Fantecchi? Hanged himself about ten years ago, they found him dead in his kitchen … I was sorry to hear it. He was a nice guy, in his way, always let me copy his homework … But best of all was Coppini! Do you remember how he dressed? He went through all of grammar school with the same pair of shoes … And when I saw him again last year, guess what he had? A Giulietta Sprint! Got married to a very rich woman, pretty too, I'm told. Can you imagine it? A twerp like that! And what about yourself? You seen anyone from back then? I even ran into Gonnelli … the moron! Inherited his dad's butcher shop, the drip couldn't have managed any other way. Remember what he used to do to Latin? Oh, and I also saw Degl'Innocenti again, the little guy, remember him? The one with the funny teeth who used to fart all the time …'

The inspector had stopped listening, and it slowly came back to him that Melchiorri had once reported him to the headmaster for playing truant with a girl. No, he'd never liked the creep, who hadn't changed at all. He still had the same useless face as before, the same air of a respectable mediocrity who only breaks the rules on the sly. He probably voted for the Christian Democrats and felt like a revolutionary for it.

‘… and what about Mazzanti? D'you know he married Luisa Tombelli? The curly-haired girl who used to chew her pens? I don't know, I could never do anything like that, marry someone who's been in your bleeding way all through grammar school! Except for the fact that la Tombelli … remember her? One year she's a little girl, and then the next, pow! What a dish! But the sexiest girl in the whole school was Marisa Conti … Remember her? Dark and dusky with green eyes … Damn, she was hot!… Yeah, those were the days … Oh, right, did I forget to mention whatshisname, come on …? Panichi! You know what he's up to these days? He works for the railways, the brute … And Chiara Magini! Jesus, was she ever ugly!… Poor thing … She was sweet on Fantechi for a good five years, but he wouldn't touch her with a ten-foot pole!… Boy, have the years ever gone by! So, what do you do for a living? Me, I deal in sanitation. If you ever need a toilet, just give me a ring. It's not a bad job … a bit like a mortician's, people will always need coffins and toilets, now, won't they? So, what do you do yourself? How are you getting along?'